


the chains that bind

by evenifwecantfindheaven



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Anthony x Siena, Bridgerton, F/M, Family, Santhony, Siblings, bridgerton family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-22 17:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30042354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evenifwecantfindheaven/pseuds/evenifwecantfindheaven
Summary: Post-season 1; Two months after parting ways with Anthony, Siena finds herself in a dire situation and seeks out his help. He’s out of the country, but his siblings are more than happy to offer assistance to any friend of their brother’s. Or, as she inevitably becomes, a friend of theirs. TW for illness, classism, mention of sexual exploitation, mention of sex in general.
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton/Siena Rosso
Comments: 20
Kudos: 39





	1. caught in dysfunction

_This is not your legacy  
This is not your destiny  
Yesterday did not define you  
No, this is not your legacy  
This is not your meant-to-be  
I can break the chains that bind you  
-_Family Tree, _Matthew West_

As she pulled her thin black shawl around her shoulders and clutched her empty purse, Siena tried to recall exactly what life she had envisioned for herself when she had chosen John Higgins as her patron over Anthony Bridgerton.

She was fairly certain it had not involved police knocking on her door, being turned out of her apartment with no warning, or whatever ailment was currently sabotaging her from the inside out.

The streets of London were always dark at night, but never before had they seemed quite this treacherous. The temptation to stop and lean against a wall for just one moment was painfully strong. But if she went down now, she would never rise again. If her aching body didn’t trap her, the sheer humiliation entailed in asking her ex-lover for a loan would.

Just enough for the doctor and the medicine. Nothing that the viscount would miss. But nothing that she would ever ask him for, either, were she not truly desperate. The worst part was, he would know that. Because he knew her.

It might have been less mortifying to reach out to another man from her past. There were several whom she wasn’t on the worst of terms with. But she couldn’t be certain that any of them would say yes.

Siena’s body lurched as it shook with a fit of deep, rattling coughs that nearly pushed her down to the earth. Grabbing hold of a lamppost with both hands, she managed to keep herself afoot.

 _“You_ insolent _little half-wit!”_

The young woman looked up with a start, causing the world around her to spin like a carousel. Her hands clung to the cold metal as her weary eyes struggled to scan the revolving world.

_“What in hell’s name possessed you to go to that audition, Siena?”_

The echo of the voice she had conjured from her past rang in her ears. She pressed one hand to her forehead, which felt disturbingly warm despite the ache that was settling in her bones. Her entire face was damp with sweat.

Time to trudge on. First, to reorient herself; pavement under her feet, covered with dry leaves. Streetlights on. Numerous chaises headed in the same direction as her. Night air all around, cold and clean. A finely dressed couple passed by with a basset hound on a leash.

Almost there. The club was so near…she had to make it.

One step, then two, one block, then two. Tears of relief pricked the corners of her eyes when she heard the voices of excited gentleman and their partners of ill repute.

_Almost there._

A sea of crisply clad lords and misters spread out before her, blurred together like the sounds of instruments in an orchestra. How could she pick out the one she sought? Elegant London accent, pleasant voice…it was coming from the right!

She turned to the right, then heard it from the left.

She turned to the left, then heard it from behind, so she turned around.

_“How daft could you be? Do you honestly believe they’ve chosen you for your talent?”_

Siena turned in the direction of the voice, but the speaker was nowhere to be seen, as was Anthony. _Anthony._ What was going on? Why hadn’t she seen him? He always came here on Thursday night.

And then she heard the words, “Alone tonight, Bridgerton?”

Siena spun around so fast that she smacked right into the back of a tall brunette man in a fine coat. Then her knees gave way and, for the second time that evening, she nearly crumpled to the ground. She would have, if the honorable son of Edmund and Violet Bridgerton had not been just quick enough to catch her.

The honorable _second-born_ son of Edmund and Violet Bridgerton.

Siena’s cheeks flushed a bright red that matched her dress.

“Miss Rosso?”

“Mr. Bridgerton! Forgive me…” Benedict Bridgerton helped her steady herself, preventing her from slipping and cracking her head on his shoulder.

“Come here, come here,” Benedict murmured, offering Siena his arm as he drew her away from the crowd. She took it and followed him, grateful to have something to hold onto. But this was wrong…Anthony…where was Anthony…she had to see him…had to ask…

She abruptly looked up at Benedict, and his concerned frown flipped 180 degrees along with everything else in view. She shut her eyes tight to hide from it.

“Your brother…”

“He’s not here at the moment. What’s going on?”

“I need to…tell him…”

Her knees buckled again, this time without any apparently cause at all. Benedict caught her around the waist with his arm and held onto her.

“I’m taking you home.”

“There’s no need-”

“Hush now. He would never forgive me. I’m taking you home.”

* * *

Two strong arms held her, bouncing a bit as they moved. Endless labyrinth, stairs and hallways.

He’d been carrying her for a few minutes. Or had it been hours?

A palm coming towards her as a woman in a dress of pink cotton slapped her upside the head.

_“They don’t care about your voice you wicked little wretch!”_

Siena’s eyes fluttered. “Mother?”

_“You have been chosen as a vessel for Satan himself! If you go back to there ever again, Jesus help me, you shall be nothing to this family! Nothing!”_

A man shushed her and tightened his hold on her. Bounce, bounce, bounce.

A door to another dark void creaked open. Her eyelids fluttered again as she was lowered onto a platform topped with velvet. Warm and sold. She was safe now. She didn’t have to fight anymore.

“Miss Rosso? Are you awake?”

Siena opened her eyes to see if the speaker was real. Whether she was or not, she appeared above Siena in the form of a teenage girl whose brown hair and shapely cheekbones could have made her Anthony’s twin.

“I’m here to help you,” said a firm, gentle voice. “But you must sit up.”

Siena groaned. She had only been resting for a few hours. Or had it been minutes?

“I can’t…” Siena started to say. But the girl helped pull her up just far enough to lean on her shoulder for support, then removed Siena’s shawl and undid the back of her dress and corset. Siena felt another piece of fabric, soft and warm, pulled over her head and arms.

Somehow, together, they managed to maneuver Siena’s body until she was able to shed her evening clothing altogether and be covered by a blanket.

“You’ll be okay, Miss Rosso. The doctor is coming. You’re going to get better soon.”

“My lord…”

Siena coughed again. She felt a hand on her back, heard distant reassurances as she succumbed to sleep.

* * *

Time and space, the very foundations of reality, were mist. For the first time in her life, Siena was free to wander the avenues of her past and present uninhibited. It was delightful. And terrifying.

She ran through cornfields in thrice-mended frocks, catching loose chickens and bringing them back to the coop, laughing under the bright afternoon sun. She threw a fistful of corn at another little girl, peals of laughter filling the farmyard as gentle hands wiped her forehead and packed ice under her arms.

She performed her first aria, center stage, daisies in her hair. White lace dress befitting her thirteen-year-old self and character. Hundreds of eyes fixed on her, some praising her talent, most tracing her outline. Taking down her measurements, limbs and core. Calculating how much longer until her legs would be long enough to straddle their hips. For the first time ever, they spoke the figures out loud. “Still one hundred and three point seven,” always after sliding a metal stick beneath her tongue.

She giggled as strong arms enveloped her from behind, whispers tickling her ear. _“I shall stay with you all day. Just the two of us. Let us put up all our new paintings and polishings and make this our home, then defile every last corner of it.”_ She leaned back into his embrace, loving every nuance of it. She just wished they could do something about the spoons that kept entering her mouth uninvited. Most tasted decent, but some had a substance that tasted as bitter as beer with none of the kick.

“What is th…” Siena attempted to ask. Before she could finish, she was out in the middle of a field, rough tree bark against her back, a teasing grin on her lover’s face as he began to slide his hand up her skirt.

 _“I promise you,”_ he whispered. _“We shan’t take long.”_

Then another hand made their way to the flesh of her hips, a much less welcome one, as she was pressed against the smooth, cold back wall of a dressing room.

“Te lo prometto _, you won’t regret this. This time tomorrow, you’ll be heading for Paris.”_

Another spoon entered her mouth, this time with chicken broth.

This was wrong. This was all wrong. Siena wasn’t someone who let people handle her. She was someone who spoke and moved and argued and fought. Someone who taught herself to sing by listening to church choirs, who caught the eye of the most notorious opera coach this side of Milan. She wasn’t weak, and she definitely wasn’t submissive. Submissive women who were born in small Italian cottages stayed in small Italian cottages until they succumbed to childbirth or disease.

 _“Since you shall never be coming back to this house, daughter, let me give you one last bit of advice. One that just might ensure your survival in your new world, should you heed it.”_ Two calloused palms cupped her cheeks firmly _. “Don’t ever let yourself forget what you are to them; art that can be fucked. A private whore. Something to appreciate only in the darkness and never in the light of day.”_

Assertive women did not stay indoors. They stepped out, and in defiance, they blossomed. They might never become flowers, but they _would_ become weeds; beautiful, unanticipated, and impossible to eradicate.

But then again, wasn’t it Siena’s own way that had gotten her here? Her refusal, no one elses, to allow the world to see that she was ill until it became dire?

She succumbed to reverie once more. The laughter in his eyes, the boyish grin on his lips as she drew closer, winding herself around him.

 _“It’s all ours, Siena,”_ he said, speaking of the apartment.

 _“Here, I’ll be your private whore.”_ She leaned in for a kiss, but he put his fingers to her lips.

_“No. Don’t ever say that. You’re Siena Rosso. You’re a soprano. And you’re my lady.”_

* * *

“I don’t suppose you knew about this young woman before, brother?” inquired Eloise, her arms crossed as she leaned against the inside of the door frame of Anthony’s room. Siena was laying on her side, moaning softly as dusk settled over London. It was even darker in here than in the rest of the house, with the curtains drawn to obstruct prying eyes.

“In a sense, I did.” Benedict admitted. “I always knew he had a mistress. But I only recently learned of the extent of his affections for her.”

Eloise quirked an eyebrow. Benedict was loathe to spill his brother’s secrets, but he trusted Eloise. And right now, she was doing them a hell of a favor.

“He told me this past season that there was the name of a lady written down in the top drawer of his desk, and stated that if anything should happen to him she was to be provided for indefinitely.”

“How can you be sure he was referring to Miss Rosso?”

“…I may have checked the drawer.”

“Benedict!”

“Eloise, do you honestly think you have anything to say when it comes to getting into other people’s business?”

Eloise glared at her brother, but didn’t quip back, because he wasn’t wrong.

“So this explains why Anthony hasn’t danced at a ball or called on a woman in years. And here I thought my brother was a rake.”

Benedict shot her a questioning glance. “Well…isn’t he?”

“I’ve been led to believe that a rake is a man who doesn’t settle down because he doesn’t _want_ to. Not because his woman’s predetermined place in society keeps them from being seen publicly together without being ostracized.”

Benedict was quiet for a moment. Eloise realized too late that the words she’d spoken had applied not just to Anthony and Siena, but to Benedict and Genevieve.

“Benedict, you know you’re not a rake either, don’t you?”

“I suppose…perhaps not.” Benedict cleared his throat. “You’ll stay with our guest again tonight, yes?”

“Certainly,” Eloise promised. “Just let me get ready for bed and say goodnight to Mother.”

“Don’t be too long,” Benedict warned. “I reckon that she will eventually realize she hasn’t seen us at the same time since Thursday.”

“Then our dear brother better get his arse back here soon. Have you written to him yet?”

“I did this morning. Though when he’ll receive it remains to be seen. It always takes a few days for post to reach Ireland.”

* * *

The next time she woke, Siena found herself looking up into a pair of narrow pale green eyes that belonged to a half-size version of the Duchess of Hastings. Small nose, full pursed lips, and auburn curls (darker in shade to her eldest sister’s, but equal in bounce). When they saw that Siena’s eyes were open as well, hers lit up like firecrackers.

“Good morning, my lady! Welcome to our home, well, really it’s my brother’s home but anyhow I live here and Mother lives here and so does everyone else, and because Anthony likes you I suppose perhaps you’re going to live here, too. You’ll just have to ask him nicely when he returns from his travels. Until then I’ve decided you’re to stay here with us, my brother told me that if Mother found out about you you’d have to leave, so I told _him_ that if he says one word I shall take my new embroidery scissors and use them to cut the pockets out of all his trousers-and he knows I would _never_ make such a promise in jest, so I’m sure he’s going to have you stay here until Anthony returns, and-oh! I’m Miss Hyacinth Bridgerton and I’m very pleased to meet you.” The girl smiled primly and took a long, deep breath, sighing almost wistfully as she exhaled. “What’s your name, my lady?”

Was this real? Was everything around her real?

Siena took her life in her hands and used them to push herself upward into a sitting position. She managed it, but as she did so the entire room wobbled, including Hyacinth, who took a few steps back.

“Are you going to retch?”

Siena shook her head, which did nothing to ease her vertigo. Hyacinth bounced forward, straightened a pile of pillows behind Siena’s back, and helped her lean against them.

“Did I do it right?” Hyacinth whispered. “Normally the servants fluff the pillows, but they can’t come in here because you’re our _secret_.” She patted Siena’s arm. “If you do have the need to retch, take care not to soil Eloise’s nightdress. You can ruin the duvet, though, if you must. It’s just Anthony’s and I doubt he cares about it that much. He scarcely uses it.”

The door opened, slowly, and in snuck Benedict, who shook with a start when he saw his youngest sister.

“Hyacinth! Whatever are you doing in here? I thought you were with your sisters!”

“My sisters are out with Mother, Gregory is studying with Miss Burns, and I don’t have to study because I excused myself so that I could come upstairs and teach Anthony’s friend about all our problems.”

“How did you even know she was _here?”_

“Colin showed me!” Hyacinth gestured to Siena. “Isn’t she gorgeous! And-fancy this-she’s a singer! A real one, not just a teacher! I’ll bet she could give _much_ better lessons than Miss Burns gives. Can we keep her, Benedict, _please?”_

“What? No we cannot _keep_ her, Hyacinth, don’t be ridiculous. She’s not some injured dove you found in the yard, she’s a human being. And how does _Colin_ know that she’s here?”

Hyacinth sighed impatiently. “You told Eloise who told Colin who told me because I’m always the last one to find out _everything_ because you are all the _worst_! Wait a moment-Gregory and Francesca don’t know! Nor does Daphne! May I tell them all? _Please?”_

“Hyacinth, _no_. We can’t tell anyone that Miss Rosso is here.”

“Who-oh, that’s her name! She’s Italian, too? Brother, I don’t see _one_ reason on earth why Mother would not adore her.”

Benedict lowered his voice. “Remember that time you tried inviting the barkeep’s daughter over to play and Mother slapped your wrist?” Hyacinth nodded. “It’s like that. She wants Anthony to have…different friends. Ones who are more like her.”

“So, friends in the ton?”

“Precisely. Do you see now why it needs to be kept secret?” Hyacinth nodded. “As for Gregory and Francesca, I _would_ let you tell them. But I highly doubt that either one of them is able to keep a secret half as well as _you_ can.”

Hyacinth grinned wickedly, giving right into the ploy.

“On my honor, brother, I shan’t say a word to either of them. But I shall have to come up here and check on Lady Rosso at least once every single day. Are we agreed?”

“Yes, we are,” Benedict conceded. “Now go on, get back to your lessons.” He quietly opened the door and helped her sneak out. “My sincerest apologies, Miss Rosso. How are you feeling? You gave the lot of us quite the fright. To say that my sister and I were relieved when your fever broke would be an understatement.

“I’m fine,” Siena’s voice came out raspy. But at least she wasn’t coughing. “I’m so sorry about all this madness. I swear, I only meant to ask your brother for a small loan so that I might purchase some medication. I can leave.”

Benedict shook his head. “I spoke with Madame Delacroix. She knows where you are, knows you’re safe. Together we took the liberty of contacting your employers, who are aware that you’ll be taking an indefinite leave.”

“But I can’t-”

“Oh, but you must. Doctor’s orders. You are to stay put and refrain from exerting yourself as you recover. Besides, Madame Delacroix wouldn’t be able to run her business were she to keep eyes on you at all times.”

That was true. Siena hated the idea of putting _anyone_ out, but at least the Bridgertons weren’t in any danger of losing their livelihood.

“I can’t begin to thank you enough, Mr. Bridgerton. I’ll pay you back at the soonest opportunity.”

Benedict waved her off. “Please. I’m only doing my duty. As long as my brother is away, I’m to attend to all of his affairs with the same amount of care and precision as him. Speaking of brothers…please excuse me one moment.”

 _The same amount of care and precision as him_ , Siena thought, as Benedict left the room. She had told Anthony to let her go two months ago. She wasn’t sure that the man would have wanted her within 50 feet of any residence he owned, let alone his family home.

When Benedict re-entered, he was clutching Colin by the scruff of his coat. The younger man glanced warily at Siena, as if she were a sacred object that might burst into light and blind him.

“Colin Bridgerton, Miss Siena Rosso,” Benedict introduced them. “Miss Rosso, my idiot brother who apparently thought it a splendid idea to tell an important secret to a ten-year-old child.” Benedict cuffed Colin upside the head.

“Ow! Stop that! What else was I meant to do? Eloise insisted that _I_ come in here and visit with our guest while Mother took her and Francesca to Lady Templeton’s luncheon! _Me!”_

“Why, pray tell, couldn’t you do it?”

“Are you serious? You’d have me spend time alone in a room-a _bedroom_ no less-in the company of this uncompromised young woman?”

“Colin…this young woman has spent the better part of the past eighteen months cavorting with our brother all over London.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“Well, it’s not as if anyone else knows that.”

 _“Everyone_ else knows that!”

“Oh.”

Siena spoke up. “You may also have seen me performing at the opera.”

“I certainly have. But I didn’t want to…assume anything.”

“Well, now you know,” said Benedict. “And the only others who are aware she’s here are myself, Eloise, and thanks to you, Hyacinth. No servants, nor anyone else.”

“No servants? However does she get her meals?”

“We bring them.”

“We can do that?”

“Certainly. It’s quite an arduous endeavor. We walk down to the kitchen and ask for food, someone fetches it for us, and we carry it upstairs and pretend we’re the ones who are going to be eating it. For example, if you could discreetly, without telling any more children we’re concealing a soprano in the master bedroom, retrieve some bread and water for her, that would be _fantastic.”_

“All right,” Colin agreed. He turned back to Siena, fumbled for parting words, bowed awkwardly, and bolted.

“My sincerest apologies for my brother, Miss Rosso,” said Benedict. “He hasn’t the slightest clue to act around women, especially ones he doesn’t know. I think…” Benedict lowered his voice, “He might be a _virgin._ ”

Siena recalled the first few times Anthony had spoken to her, or tried to, anyway. He’d had the same nervous, cautious air about him, unsure as to how to go about even beginning a conversation with her, let alone asking to spend time with her. And even after they made contact, he hadn’t gone straight for the bedroom. He’d started by having meals with her and talking to her and even dancing with her, as though she were a girl he’d met at one of his absurd balls.

She’d suspected he’d been a virgin, too. She’d been surprised. _Pleasantly_ surprised.

“I daresay you’ll feel a bit better after you’ve eaten a bit. You haven’t had a solid meal in god knows how long.”

Siena was able to get a good view of the master suite for the first time. It was filled with mahogany cabinets and closets, all neatly shuttered. The rugs and the bedspread were a genetic brown with nary a speck of dust. The room was elegant to a fault, but Hyacinth had been right; it didn’t look lived in at all.

Except, there was one bedside table that had an arrangement of fruit and wine on it, along with a half-finished pencil sketch. When he noticed that Siena was looking at it, Benedict’s face flushed.

“Forgive me. I haven’t had much time to practice my art since my brother left town, and you’ve been asleep, so…”

“There’s certainly no need to stop on my account. I’ll be fast asleep in no more than twenty minutes anyhow.”

“It probably seems quite frivolous to you, that I spend my time drawing pictures of fruit.”

“Not at all. I knew you were an artist. The viscount told me about the time that you drew a picture of yourself riding a stallion on the wall of the nursery.”

Benedict chuckled. “Not my finest hour.”

“Nonsense! When I was a girl, I used to go up to my room and sing by myself. I thought that if I closed the door, no one could hear me. It was a comforting delusion, considering how terribly screechy I was.”

“Well, I’ve heard you sing, Miss Rosso. Screechy no longer.”

“I should hope so, after fifteen years of training. I daresay I’m going to have a bear of a time reacquiring my voice after this illness.”

“You’ll do perfectly well,” he assured her. “You have a gift. A gift that the world appreciates and recognizes. You are fortunate.”

Siena shifted, regarding him curiously.

“I am fortunate to have been recognized, yes. But my voice is no gift, Mr. Bridgerton. It is a skill. A skill I have developed through perseverance, dedication, and many, many hours. My talent, as you call it, was no more handed to me at birth than yours.”

Benedict looked down at his drawing. It wasn’t perfect, there were many little things he wished he was able to fix. But it was a significant improvement on anything he could have done on his finest day ten years earlier. Not to speak of his schoolboy days, when he had gotten in trouble quite often for sketching anything in his line of sight on anything he had on his person-be it paper, slate, or even a book. For a time, his father had joked that he had picked up a pencil in the nursery and never put it down.

She was right. He _had_ worked his whole life to develop his talent.

“I never thought of it that way,” he said thoughtfully. “Thank you, Miss Rosso.”

When Colin returned with provisions, Benedict went back to his drawing. Siena ate.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t a home available for people such as her to so much as set foot in, let alone be guests in.

Yet these people-Benedict, Eloise, little Hyacinth, even Colin-had chosen to keep her here. They had chosen to tend to her _personally_.

Their only possible excuse was a sense of obligation toward Anthony. But that meant that somehow, they knew and believed that what she’d had with him was substantial. And they _accepted_ it.

As for Siena’s reasons, they were simple. She didn’t ask for handouts, nor did she accept them. But she was too damn stubborn to let herself die without having exhausted every possible alternative.


	2. all these questions

Family dinner at the Bridgerton home was lacking in its usual hustle and bustle. No guests, only six children currently at home, Benedict allegedly working away in the study. Other than Gregory and Hyacinth, who were squabbling over the best character in a story they’d completely made up, everyone was making polite conversation or else eating quietly.

Until the lady of the house addressed her youngest daughter.

“Oh, Hyacinth. Miss Burns told me that you disappeared from your lessons today because you weren’t feeling well, only to return the picture of health a half hour later. Care to explain that?”

To Violet’s surprise, everyone at the table except for Francesca and Gregory immediately turned to face Hyacinth. Luckily, the child had an answer prepared.

“I had a headache, but don’t worry, it’s all better now.”

“You had a headache that lasted exactly thirty minutes?” Violet inquired.

Hyacinth nodded seriously.

“Don’t worry, Mother,” Gregory said helpfully. “She only missed music lessons. Not the important stuff.”

Violet regarded her youngest children sternly. “There are fewer more important things for a young lady than to become proficient in the arts. Hyacinth, you shall practice the pianoforte for a half hour after supper.”

“Can’t I practice singing instead? Perhaps somewhere quiet and out of everyone’s way, such as Anthony’s bedroom?”

“Obviously not, Hyacinth,” Colin cut in. “Because _that wouldn’t make the slightest bit of sense to anyone.”_

“I’ll help you practice the pianoforte,” Eloise offered. “And then perhaps you can come upstairs and read with me for a bit before you go to sleep?”

“Oh…alright,” Hyacinth agreed. She would have much preferred to have Francesca’s help with her playing, seeing that Eloise was terrible at it. But visiting Siena was more important.

“Why thank you, Eloise,” said Violet. “That’s very kind of you.” She scanned the table. “So…how was everyone’s day?”

“Fine!” answered three out of five children in unison.

* * *

“And that is the reason why indoor fencing practice has been banned in all of London, and also the reason why my brother Colin only has nine toes!” Hyacinth took a deep breath. “Speaking of Colin, this past summer, it was him who declared passionate love for the lovely Miss Marina Thompson, only to later discover-”

“All right!” Eloise jumped up from her chair. “I think that’s enough stories for tonight.” Hyacinth pouted. “Say goodnight, Hyacinth.”

“Good night, Lady Rosso.”

“Miss Rosso,” Siena corrected her. Hyacinth ignored the correction and left.

“Sincerest apologies,” said Eloise as she closed and locked the door. “My sister has quite the tongue.”

“No apologies necessary. I particularly enjoyed the tale in which Lord Bridgerton convinced Mr. Benedict Bridgerton to attempt to fly from the drawing room curtains.”

“Word has it that was quite a scene. Daphne was all but two and even she remembers it. Mother was absolutely _livid_. Benedict reckons his left buttock hasn’t been the same since.”

Siena laughed so hard she began coughing again. Eloise rushed forward to rub her back.

“Do forgive me,” Eloise pleaded.

“No need,” said Siena quickly as she caught her breath. “No need.”

Eloise opened her mouth to say more, but then Benedict entered.

“Mother’s looking for you, Eloise. You’d best change into your nightclothes.”

Eloise stood up. “Did you pick up the rest of Miss Rosso’s medication?”

“Yes,” Benedict slid two bottles onto the bedside table. “These are to be taken twice daily for four days. One teaspoon per, preferably with meals.”

“How much did they cost?” asked Siena.

Benedict waved her off. “That’s hardly your concern.”

“Yes it is. I intend to repay you.”

“I shan’t allow it.”

Eloise cut in. “Fifty-five pounds total.”

“Eloise!”

Eloise turned to her brother. “I do hope that Miss Rosso chooses to accept our kindness, brother, but women have the right to know their options. Really, has Genevieve Delacroix taught you nothing?”

Benedict whipped around to face Eloise, his expression aghast. Siena’s jaw dropped open, all thoughts on money and meds forgotten for the moment.

 _“What?”_ Siena faced Benedict directly.

Benedict looked away and ran his hand through his hair. Eloise paled.

“I’m so sorry, brother! I thought she’d know!”

“Clearly, she didn’t!”

“This isn’t possible!” said Siena. “Genevieve isn’t seeing anyone. She’s been spending her evenings with her cousin Bridgette in…”

Now it was Siena’s turn to be mad at herself. How had she ever been stupid enough to believe that excuse?

“How could she _not_ tell me about you? Gen knew all about the viscount and I.”

“It would appear that some Bridgertons are more discreet than others,” Benedict remarked, with a pointed look at his sister.

“I apologize sincerely,” said Eloise. “I’ll return immediately…I must make haste.” She left to go find her mother before Violet came looking for her.

Siena turned to Benedict and shot him an incriminating look. One that she wouldn’t have dared cast upon him before learning that he was in a relationship with a woman of her station.

“We met at Granville’s,” Benedict admitted. “About three months ago. It took me a moment to convince her that not all Bridgertons are spineless idiots. I take it my brother did something particularly bull-headed that day?” When Siena didn’t react, he continued. “In any case, I assure you that I have nothing but the best of intentions with your friend. Not that you’d have anything to worry about regardless. We all know our dear Genevieve can take care of herself.”

It was absolutely true that Genevieve could take care of herself. But so too could Siena. And she’d ended up brokenhearted all the same.

“Be careful.”

“What do you mean?”

“Even if you were willing to chance sullying your family name by marrying her, I can assure you that _she_ wouldn’t be willing to abandon all she has worked for in exchange for a title.”

“Who said anything about marriage? Artists have no need for marriage. Genevieve and I are in a relationship. Enjoying one another. That is all.”

Siena hoped that Genevieve and Benedict were better at enjoying one another, free from the pressures of society, than she and Anthony had been. She wouldn’t wish her heartbreak on anyone, least of all a friend.

Or two.

* * *

The next day, Benedict was busy with errands and meetings from sunup to sundown, which left Siena’s care and comfort to Colin and Eloise. The latter’s presence was requested in the parlor for a while after breakfast.

“She’s well enough to administer her own medication and feed herself,” Eloise explained. “But she’s not to be alone until we can ensure that the fever won’t return. Doctor’s orders. And for heaven’s sake, do try to be good company. The poor woman hasn’t got a thing to entertain her thoughts.”

Colin nervously took the seat closest to the doorway, which put him about fifteen feet away from Siena. She was only propped up by two pillows, not doing much but clearly awake.

“So, er, you’re Italian, are you not? Your English is impeccable.”

“My mother was English,” Siena responded. “I’ve been speaking it all my life.”

“Oh. Quite well, then. Um…my condolences?”

“For what?”

“The loss of your mother, of course.”

“She’s very much alive.”

“Oh,” Colin cleared his throat. “Right.”

He grinned nervously at the carpet, while mentally berating himself for being such a half-wit. He had absolutely nothing to say to this woman. He had absolutely nothing to say to _any_ woman, other than those who were family, or those who felt like family to him.

Add to that that Siena was one of London’s most notorious opera singers, and he couldn’t think of one thing he could possibly have in common with her.

“I do hope that Anthony shall return from Ireland soon,” he finally said.

Siena looked up.

“Ireland! What business has he there?”

“We own a property. It’s managed, but no Bridgerton has cast eyes upon it in quite some years, so he reckoned it was time. I _tried_ to persuade him to allow me to travel in his place, or failing that, to accompany him. But he insisted that I remain here, in case something happened to Benedict. A spare-spare, if you will.”

“Well if it’s any comfort to you, I haven’t heard the best things about Ireland,” said Siena. “It’s the only country in the UK I’ve not performed in.”

Colin sat forward in his chair, his interest piqued.

“You’ve been to _every country_ in the UK apart from Ireland?”

“The UK. Germany. France. Switzerland, though that was only for one week,” Siena thought for a moment. “Italy, of course. And Austria. Though again, very brief.”

“Oh, god, do I envy your life. I mean, apart from the illness and the sudden eviction. And your bloke getting arrested for tax evasion.”

Siena shrugged weakly. “It all comes with the trade. For better or for worse.”

“How many cities have you performed in?”

“Counting where I trained? Nine.” Colin’s eyes just about bulged out of his head, and Siena gave in to the urge to brag a little. “I’ve only performed for royalty in three of them, including London, of course.”

“Which one is the best?”

It was a question Siena had been asked countless times, and she gave her standard reply.

“They all have their merits. I imagine heaven is where the French design the clothing, the Germans keep the time, and the Italians entertain.”

The last person to ask that question had been Anthony, to whom she had also given her standard reply. He had followed it up with, “what do the English do?” to which she had answered, “They tell the jokes.” Colin, however, wasn’t interested in asking her about boring old Britain.

“Have you collected anything from your travels?”

“That I have,” said Siena. “Stories. Tricks. Secrets.”

Colin moved as close as he possibly could to the side of the bed.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to share a few? I’ll trade you anything.”

“I’ll take one properly functioning set of lungs and three cups of chamomile tea.”

There wasn’t much he could do about her lungs, but Colin did retrieve the requested beverage. Siena used what little energy she had to share her experiences with him for the next while. She napped for two hours, woke up, ate and drank some more, answered a few more questions.

After all, the least she could do was be entertaining.

At lunchtime, Colin finally came down to fetch some food from the kitchen. Eloise found him and demanded to know what he’d been up to.

“Conversing with our friend, of course.” Colin bumped his knee against the base of a sculpture as he turned. “Ouch! _Accidenti!”_

“Colin! Have you been making our poor, _ill_ guest teach you foreign swears the entire morning?”

“Certainly not. She also taught me the best route to take from Paris to Vienna and listed off the cities with the best cooking in all of Europe.” Eloise shot her brother a glare. “What?”

At that moment, one of the kitchen servants approached bearing a tray with two cups of tea, one plate of bread and butter, and one plate consisting entirely of biscuits.

“Your meal, Mr. Colin.”

“I’ll take that!” Eloise took the lunch tray. “You, go find some other way to occupy your time. And perhaps eat something with a little substance to it.”

“But I was going to learn French next!”

_“No.”_

The servant glanced between the two siblings, obviously baffled as to why Eloise had just taken away Colin’s requested lunch, but she said nothing.

“Going somewhere, Eloise?” Francesca inquired as she passed by her sister in the hallway.

“Upstairs to read, of course,” said Eloise quietly. “Don’t tell Mother.”

Francesca regarded her sister suspiciously, but also remained silent.

Later that afternoon, once Siena had attended to all her needs and slept for a few more hours, Eloise apologized sincerely for any and all of Colin’s antics.

“It’s no bother, Miss Bridgerton. Once he discovered his voice, he turned out not to be bad company.”

“That’s a tall order for him in the presence of a handsome woman.”

“’Twas in part due to him knowing my history with the viscount, no doubt. That sort of thing tends to make me less of a prospect and more of an amiable acquaintance.” Siena took a sip of her tea. “Although…there was one time that three German brothers all secretly tried to seduce me for over a month before they caught one another. That was infamous _.”_

It was a highly improper anecdote. Fortunately, Eloise only stared at her in shock for a few moments before laughing out loud.

“You must have had to deal with a great many cads over your life,” she remarked.

“Oh, yes,” Siena placed the cup on her tray and leaned back on her pillows. “I had one who tried to win me over using only gifts of hand-whittled birds, all of which turned out looking like deformed carrots. One rejected me because he found out I was allergic to daisies. And _one_ ended things with me because his mother accused me of ruining his life.”

“Good lord,” said Eloise. “The things people are willing to do in pursuit of a relationship are positively inane. What I wouldn’t give to have a skill like yours. To be able to make my own way in the world, never even being forced to think of marriage.”

Siena closed her eyes. It was true. Marriage could never be forced upon her, because it was all but forbidden.

“I’m sorry,” said Eloise, not even knowing what she was apologizing for. “It’s just that I’ve always envied any woman who has the opportunity to create her own path, rather than follow the one laid out by the men who run our world. What I wouldn’t give to be able to attend university, or write, or sing, or even run my own business. Anything but smile and strut for the entertainment of gentlemen in hopes that one of them should do me the honor of securing my future. It’s positively barbaric.”

Siena wondered if there _was_ such a path for any woman. Certainly not for her.

“What are you reading?” she asked, gesturing to the book Eloise always seemed to have in her hands.

“Pride and Prejudice,” said Eloise. “It just came out this year.”

“Is it good?”

“It’s sublime. Mother thinks it was written by a man, but that’s impossible.”

“How so?” Siena asked.

“Her female characters are human. Not porcelain.”

Siena opened her eyes and turned to Eloise.

“I’ve decided I trust your taste in books.”

Eloise smiled, less enthused by the compliment than by being in the presence of a woman other than Penelope who had similar tastes to hers.

“Would you care to hear some of it?”

“If you don’t mind, sure.”

Eloise went back to the first page of the book and began reading it out loud. As Siena rested and listened, she considered that perhaps she wasn’t so different from this innocent debutante after all.

* * *

That afternoon when Hyacinth was finished with her lessons, she told her mother she was going to play with Eloise and snuck upstairs to the master suite. She took care to tap very softly on the door, then bounced with glee when the door opened, as Siena was awake again.

“Thank the lord! I’ve been absolutely _dying_ to hear Lady Siena’s tales about the people from the opera who make unseemly decisions.”

Eloise shushed Hyacinth and ushered her into the room.

“What tales are you speaking of Hyacinth?” asked Eloise. “We haven’t told you of any such nonsense.”

“Colin told me there was one of two men and a goat!”

“It’s true,” said Siena. “Two cello players were fed up with their maestro and took it upon themselves to punish him by leaving a goat in his private room. In two hours time, that goat consumed the entire score of _The Marriage Of Figaro_ as well as two waistcoats.”

Hyacinth burst into giggles. But Eloise also heard laughter coming from _outside_ the room. She turned and opened the door.

There was her youngest brother, standing with his ear to the door, face flushed with amusement.

 _“Gregory!”_ Hyacinth planted one hand on her hip. “I told you I was doing something private with Eloise!”

“Well I didn’t believe you, which is very well seeing it was a falsehood!” The twelve-year-old boy came into the room. “Why is your new friend in a nightdress? Doesn’t she know it’s day?”

“Of course she does, imbecile! She’s feeling under the weather and she’s my friend and Anthony’s friend and Mother doesn’t know she’s here and I didn’t tell you because it’s a secret!”

“Hey! I can keep a secret, too!” Gregory protested. “Just because you’re taller doesn’t make you wiser!”

“That bloody well better be true! Because if Mother finds out that Lady Siena is living in our home, we shall all have to leave and I haven’t the slightest idea of where we might go because Lady Siena doesn’t have a house!”

“I don’t wish for anyone to leave! I wish to hear about the goats, too!”

Hyacinth shot Eloise and Siena a pleading look, a please-take-this-measure-to-avoid-a-catastrophe look, but Siena was already motioning for Eloise to pull up another chair.

“I don’t mind, truly,” said Siena. “But only one story per, and in return, each of you must tell _me_ one story. And they all must be true.”

“Deal!” Hyacinth and Gregory bounced into their chairs. Siena told them about a duke who got drunk and proposed to her in front of the prince of Switzerland, and a less questionable tale of a singer who accidentally sprayed her throat with a substance that made her screech like an angry cat in front of a live audience. Then Hyacinth told a mocking tale of Eloise’s ineptitude at music, and Gregory chose an anecdote about twelve-year-old Daphne pushing Anthony into a cactus.

“He had to sit there with tweezers and remove pickers from all over himself,” said Gregory. “He called Daphne all sorts of ugly names and then made her cry, but then after the needles were out he came back and told her he wasn’t mad and that he’d deserved to be shoved for telling her she had ugly teeth and no prince would ever marry her.

Siena had heard this story before, though Anthony’s telling hadn’t been nearly as amusing. He remembered it differently, because afterward, when they were alone, Violet had chastised Anthony not for being an obnoxious older brother, but for being an unprofessional head of household. It was then that Anthony had learned he was a viscount first, and a man second.

Just as how for most of her adult life, Siena had been someone’s mistress first, a performer second, a woman last. It was no wonder that the one time she had _wanted_ to put a man first, it had all gone wrong.

“Are you alright, Lady Siena?”

“Quite so, Miss Hyacinth. I’m simply weary from the excitement is all. And may I remind you, there’s no need to call me lady.”

“Very well, then! Goodnight, Siena!”

* * *

The following morning at breakfast, Violet Bridgerton announced her plans to go promenade in the square. She asked her children which of them would be wont to accompany her.

“Oh, you know I’ve got lots of work to do,” said Benedict. “But I’m quite sure the rest of you shall enjoy yourselves.”

Benedict winced, surely in no connection to a sudden movement of Colin’s leg beneath the table.

“Actually, I could use some help. Colin, would you do me the favor of staying behind?”

“You know it, brother.”

Hyacinth spoke up. “I can’t possibly go out this morning. I promised Miss Burns I would practice dancing steps for two hours.”

 _“Scheisse!”_ said Colin. “There is absolutely no way you need that much-”

Hyacinth leaned over the table, her eyes narrowed into slits.

_“Two. Hours.”_

“You know what?” Gregory chimed in. “I believe that Miss Burns asked me to practice my dancing steps as well. I’d best stay with you, Hyacinth.”

“No way! I am to practice them all by myself!”

“You cannot practice ballroom dancing alone!”

“You can if you put your mind to it!”

“That’s enough!” said Benedict.

“Good morning, everyone!” Eloise entered the room. “What’s going on?”

Benedict cleared his throat. “Colin and I are staying here, everyone else is going promenade with Mother.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Eloise. “I can’t go either. I promised Penelope I would finish the book she loaned me today.”

Colin huffed. “Well _I_ promised Benedict that I would help him work!”

_“AND I SAID TWO HOURS!”_

“Children, please!” Violet Bridgerton shouted, just loudly enough to get all their attention. “I only meant to offer that anyone who would like to come along may. No one’s presence is required.” She looked around at her children. “What about you, Francesca?”

Francesca looked at Eloise. She looked at her older brothers. She looked at Gregory and Hyacinth.

“I think I should quite like to stay home too, Mother. I’m having dinner with the Huntingtons tonight, so I’ll need to choose a dress and prepare.”

“That’s perfectly fine, Francesca. I shall ask Lady Danbury to go with me, seeing as you are all occupied.” Violet did look a smidge disappointed, but was clearly none the wiser. “Francesca _does_ need to prepare for her outing, the men _do_ need to get their work done, and I’ve been quite impressed with the amount of effort my dear Hyacinth has been putting into developing her music and dancing skills. But before we adjourn, I saved a surprise for all of you.” Violet extracted several pieces of paper from her pocket. “These arrived from Ireland last night!”

“Letters from Anthony!” Gregory hopped up and ran to his mother, as did Hyacinth. Everyone else patiently waited until Violet had passed them out. For the next few minutes, everyone poured over the words of their beloved brother in silence. Then they began swapping funny or heartfelt quotes that they’d read.

Benedict’s letter contained a full paragraph that he did not quote to his family, though he was convinced that his mother had already perused these letters the evening before. Especially his. Fortunately, Anthony had anticipated this and chosen his words wisely.

_“I want to take a moment to appreciate, dear brother, how thoughtfully and carefully you are attending to all of my affairs. You are handling everything just as I would if I were present. I do not anticipate being able to return to London before the end of the month, as there are a great many oversights I’m forced to correct here. But I am confident in your ability to keep everyone dear to me as safe and as comfortable as ever, by whatever means necessary.”_

* * *

“So…” Francesca tapped her foot. “ _You_ are the reason why I haven’t seen my sisters in three days? And why Gregory attempted to purchase a goat? And why Colin told me to bugger off in Welsh?”

Siena wasn’t sure what to make of this girl, this quiet, steadfast sister who Anthony had referred to as the easiest Bridgerton. Hyacinth was sitting in front of Siena on the bed, a cute, tiny protective shield, while the other four siblings stood solemnly about.

“And I suppose I’m the last to know? Except, perhaps, for Anthony?”

“Anthony does know,” Benedict explained. He felt Siena look at him. “I wrote to him, he replied with his blessing for our guest to stay here as long as she may need.”

“Daphne knows, too!” Hyacinth blurted out.

Eloise groaned. “You told her?”

“Benedict said I could!”

“That is _not_ what I said!”

“Well, my letter didn’t mention Siena by _name_ for heaven’s sake!” Hyacinth protested. “Only that we’ve got a secret friend in the house who’s Italian and sings well and knows Anthony.”

“So….” Francesca spoke up. “I really am the last?”

“We didn’t mean for it to be that way,” said Colin. “Honest.”

“It’s true!” Hyacinth bounced. “Only Benedict was meant to know and then he told Eloise who told Colin who told me and then Gregory followed me upstairs and found out and now you’re finding out and we mustn’t tell Mother because if we do then we shall all have to leave and go live in the poorhouse together because Siena hasn’t got any home.”

Gregory made a face. “Why would we live in the poorhouse when we could just buy ourselves a new home, you _dolt?”_

“Hush now,” said Francesca. “I have no intention of saying a word. I only ask that I be included in…whatever this is.”

“Fine,” Hyacinth conceded. “You can have some time with Siena now, but _I_ want to visit with her this afternoon.”

“Absolutely not,” said Benedict. “I’m showing her my sketches this afternoon.”

“But she was going to teach me how to ask for the water closet in Prussia!” Colin protested

“And help me get a goat!” Gregory insisted.

Siena spoke up. “I would like to help with all of those things…save the goat acquisition, of course. But I do believe that you only have a few minutes to come up with some sort of timetable before the staff notices that all six of you are missing.”

“All right,” Eloise cracked her knuckles. “There are sixteen hours in a day, there are six of us, so each of us should be able to spend roughly two and a half hours keeping Siena company. Since I came up with the idea, I shall go first.”

“I want to go second!” said Gregory.

“No, me!” yelled Hyacinth.

“Let’s go alphabetically,” suggested Benedict.

_“No.”_

Once they had finally worked out who was going to visit Siena when, accounting for work, school, and social activities, the siblings finally began to go about their business. Benedict stayed long enough to allow Siena to read his letter from Anthony. From his words, she surmised that he didn’t mind helping her. But he wasn’t coming home to be with her, either.

Either the situation in Ireland really did require a great deal of attention, or he really had let go. Or perhaps some winning combination of the two.

If he had let her go, that was good. That was what she had asked for, wasn’t it? That was what was necessary. Wasn’t it?

When Francesca asked Siena why she was crying, she pretended she had a migraine and everyone snuck about quietly and let her rest.


	3. you are chosen

Every last Bridgerton, A through H, now knew of Siena’s whereabouts. And not only did they accept her presence in their home, they appeared to _love_ it. Those who were able constantly drifted in and out of her room, wanting to ask her things, tell her things, show her things, and just be around her.

_“Don’t ever let yourself forget what you are to them…something to appreciate only in the darkness and never in the light of day.”_

She mustn’t allow herself to imagine that they all thought of her as a friend just because they enjoyed her. She was a vibrant gem in their pastel world, shiny and new. That would not be the case for much longer.

“I’ll need to practice my singing at every possible opportunity,” Siena explained. “So please, someone keep me informed as to when the lady of the house will be away.”

Francesca frowned. “Mama goes out calling nearly every morning after breakfast. And I suppose you might practice in the old storage room in the east wing, which is the furthest out of the way. But even so, what may the staff think?”

She had a point, but Siena couldn’t go much longer without taking at least some action towards reclaiming her livelihood. Her voice was all she had.

Perhaps this would be where her visit ended.

“I know!” said Gregory. “Eloise could practice the pianoforte so everyone covers their ears!” His aforementioned sister elbowed him in the ribs. _“Ow!”_

“Or maybe…all of us could sing with you?” Colin suggested.

“Do any of you sing?” asked Siena.

“Oh, no,” said Gregory. “We’ll all be so loud and terrible no one will notice you at all!”

They tested out that plan the following morning, when Violet was away at brunch. The Bridgertons escorted Siena to the east wing undetected by clustering around her and moving quickly. Siena sang softly at first, so that the others could follow her lead, and then they amplified their sound along with her. Obviously, even with Siena’s vocal chords rusty after her illness, no one was able to come close to matching her skill. But the harder they tried, the more they improved. Especially the children.

“Mrs. Wilson has told me she’s been hearing the sound of operatic scales coming from above her quarters,” Violet remarked one day as she lounged in the parlor with her girls. “I wonder who here could have been practicing?”

Without missing a beat, Hyacinth stood up and belted out a perfect scale followed by one of her mother’s favorite hymns. Later that night, she recounted the story to Siena with great pride and pleasure.

“I haven’t seen Mother so astounded in years! She says that my voice will ensnare me a perfect match and bring me everything I want out of life. And I owe it all to you, Siena.”

Siena was unprepared for the lump that formed in her throat when the ten-year-old girl flung her arms about her waist and clung to her, gratitude dancing across her eyes.

* * *

One afternoon, the Bridgerton girls managed to sneak Siena’s suitcase up from the modiste (along with a note from Genevieve chastising her for letting herself become so deathly ill). She unpacked all her usual red and black ensembles whilst theorizing how best to tone them down. She wanted her clothes back, but not to look _too_ much like a concubine in front of Anthony’s siblings.

“I don’t think I could take pleasure in being quite as _seen_ as you are in these colors,” Eloise remarked. “But I must admit, I’m envious of the style. No fifteen layers of petticoats to weigh you down.”

Francesca picked up a deep maroon shawl and tossed it around her shoulders.

“Quite becoming on me, is it not?” She spun around in front of the mirror, the shawl whipping around her like ribbons. “

“Maybe so, with the right dress,” Siena replied. “One befitting a proper young lady such as yourself.”

Francesca smirked. “Propriety is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Ooh, look at this!” Hyacinth grabbed at a pair of fishnets. “May I try these on?”

“No!” answered all three others in unison.

* * *

Eloise continued sleeping in the bed with Siena long after it was a necessary precaution, mainly because they enjoyed reading together, the same book, side by side. When Francesca discovered their secret club, she persuaded them to let her join.

 _"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth,”_ Eloise read. _“From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do."_

Francesca, who had not come to that part of the story before, laughed so hard that Eloise felt compelled to clamp a hand over her mouth lest they should be heard from outside the room.

“How much does Mrs. Bennet sound like Mother to you, sister?” Eloise asked Francesca. “Thank the lord she also has four sons to occupy her thoughts, or else she might be just as insufferable.”

“Now, that’s not entirely fair,” Francesca replied. “Mother wants us all to marry for love.”

“In theory,” Eloise replied. “She wants us to marry for love _under the proper circumstances._ Can you imagine if, say, she were to discover that one of us was madly in love with someone outside of the ton? Someone in the service industry?”

Siena knew that Eloise was referencing Benedict’s relationship with Genevieve, not her former relationship with Anthony, but the words pertained to her all the same.

“Well no,” Francesca agreed. “She most likely would not approve of such a union. Were such a circumstance to occur, we’d most likely have better luck persuading Anthony to sign off on it. He acts as though he encompasses all of Mother’s sensibilities, but clearly, he doesn’t.”

That was a damned irony. Anthony, as viscount, had the ability to approve any potential match of his siblings’ at his own discretion. Yet he did not have those liberties for himself.

But nevertheless…he had tried to take his relationship with Siena public. He had been ready to walk out on the dance floor with her on his arm. To face the wrath of his mother and her ilk. It was Siena who had not.

Suddenly, two pairs of guilty eyes shifted to Siena. Eyes that seemed to have just realized that they had been talking about her.

“Let us return to the book,” said Siena quickly, motioning for Eloise to read the next page. Eloise picked the book back up, mumbling an embarrassed apology as she did so.

“Perhaps we could read your favorite book next, Miss SIena,” Francesca offered.

“I’m not quiet sure I have a favorite yet. I’ve never had much time for reading before. Though I am finding that the right books in the right company can be just as entertaining as theater.”

* * *

“The post has arrived! Post has arrived!” Hyacinth took a deep breath. Benedict, Colin, and Siena, who had just been enjoying some uninterrupted idle chatter, took in her presence.

“Close the door behind you!” Colin whispered.

“Oh….sorry.” Hyacinth closed the door, then retrieved an unopened letter from her pocket.

“Who’s that from?” asked Siena, trying unsuccessfully to keep the edge out of her voice.

“Daphne, of course!” Hyacinth pressed a letter into Benedict’s hand. “It’s addressed to all six of us! Let us read it now!”

“Should we not wait for the others?” asked Siena. Hyacinth shook her head and pulled off the seal.

_“Dearest brothers and sisters,_

_I hope this letter finds all of you in good spirits and good health. I have received all of your letters and will respond to each of you individually in good time, but I wanted to deliver one bit of news to you all at once. And I wanted all of you, dearest family, to be the first to know that the duke and I are expecting a baby! He or she is to be born next April, sometime around Easter Sunday. The bad news is that unfortunately, we will most likely not be returning to London anytime before next season. I have not been in the best of health, and the duke is reluctant to leave my side. He is absolutely over the moon, as am I, and rest assured that he is being properly attentive. At times a bit too much so! Anyhow, I have also written letters to Mother and Anthony separately, so hopefully they will hear the news soon enough. Don’t go telling them before they do! Also, although I will not be traveling anytime soon, this certainly does not mean you can’t come visit me. If possible, you may bring your new friend along, as she sounds absolutely delightful. On that subject, if she-”_

Hyacinth stopped reading, so Colin snatched the letter from her.

“ _If she finds herself in need of a little extra space, please know that our London house is available for her use. The duke has informed his London staff of this possibility as well._

_All my love,_

_Daphne.”_

Hyacinth sighed and drooped her shoulders. She turned to Siena.

“I suppose you’re going to leave us now?”

“Of course I won’t do that. You think I would ever dream of leaving my favorite singing partner behind without a thought?”

The smile that lit up Hyacinth’s face could have melted ice.

* * *

On Thursday night, Violet announced that she was taking a one-night trip to visit her aunt in Southampton. She asked each of her children if they should wish to come along, and each one politely declined. So much to everyone else’s delight, Violet Bridgerton packed her bags and left.

After dinner had been prepared, Benedict gave the entire staff the rest of the night off. All six siblings, plus Siena, filled their plates and piled into the drawing room, where they sat on floral couches and took out all the parlor games they had.

“What shall we play first?” asked Colin. “Miss Siena, you choose. You’re our guest.”

“Can we play snap?” Hyacinth pleaded.

“Do _not_ let that one talk you into snap, Miss Siena,” Benedict warned. “She’s absolutely indomitable.”

“How about hearts?” suggested Gregory.

“Actually,” said Siena. “I’m quite intrigued by _that_ one.”

She pointed to the chess board.

“That’s Colin’s favorite,” Francesca explained. “None of the rest of us are any good at it. Except Eloise.”

“Hey, I’m good at it, too!” Benedict protested.

“Then how come Anthony is able to beat you every single time?"

Colin, in the meantime, sat down and explained the function of every single chess piece to Siena. The others listened as well. Hyacinth began to take notes.

“So the tower moves upwards and downwards, and these ones here,” Siena picked up a knight, “Move on the diagonal…but the queen does both?”

“Close,” said Colin. “The bishops move on the diagonal. The knight is the one who moves in the shape of an L. Try to remember it this way, horses are big, so they need a lot of space around them in which to move.”

“And queens are more powerful than kings,” said Siena. “I think I’ve got it.”

“Brilliant. Since it’s your first time, I’ll allow you to play white and take the first turn.”

“That’s very gallant of you, Mr. Colin, but black is much more my color.”

“All right,” said Colin. “But don’t feel too bad if you don’t last long.”

Everyone in the family sat quietly, nibbling at their meals, and watched as Siena proceeded to checkmate Colin in precisely five moves.

“That was the single greatest thing I have ever seen in my life!” Eloise shouted over the applause.

Gregory paused cheering long enough to say, “I did not believe it was possible to like you more, Miss Siena, but I most certainly do!”

“Oh hang on now, that was beginner’s luck, clear and simple!” Colin said, already rearranging the pieces. “I demand a rematch!”

“You’ve got it, sir,” Siena cheerfully began putting her black pieces back in place.

Then they played again. That time, she beat him in four moves.

“Forget it!” Colin pushed the board away. “Obviously, you’ve played this game before!”

“Well, you didn’t ask me if I’d played before,” said Siena.

Gregory, Hyacinth, Francesca, and Eloise all clapped.

“No,” Colin admitted. “I suppose I didn’t.”

Eloise looked at her brother, who was off to the side, somewhat detached from all the excitement.

“Benedict, what have you been drawing over there this entire time?”

Before he could even respond, Eloise snatched the sketchbook from her brother’s hand. She gaped at the drawing for a moment, then thrust it in Siena’s lap.

“Eloise!” Benedict protested. “How could you wound me by showing the lovely Miss Siena my horrible rendition of her? That’s not even a complete line sketch!”

Siena looked at the drawing Benedict had made of her face. Remarkably, the piece of paper captured the shape of her eyes, cheeks, and smile as well as a mirror could. It was a beautifully simple piece of art, one that was clearly a shadow of what it had the potential to become.

“I must ask you to complete this and make me a copy of it to keep for myself. I adore it, Mr. Benedict.”

“Do you now?” Benedict sat up straight, taking the book back from Siena. “Is there any chance I might be able to implore you to pose for a full-size portrait?”

“I would be honored!”

“The honor is mine! I shall find you a proper outfit, a proper backdrop, bring you down to my studio, and do everything in my power to make you as gorgeous as the Mona Lisa herself!”

“I’ve seen the Mona Lisa. That’s quite a promise to make.”

Benedict dropped his entire sketchbook.

“You’ve… _seen it_? How?”

“As you may recall, I spent a year in France. We took a tour of the louvre. Several times.”

After that, Benedict spent twenty minutes straight making Siena describe every single detail she could recall of every art museum in Europe.

“Enough!” Gregory shrieked, clamping a hand over his oldest brother’s mouth. “Stop asking her questions!”

“But you love it when Miss Siena talks about her travels!”

“Of her own volition!” Francesca pointed out. “Not when you’re accosting her!”

Hyacinth rolled her eyes. “Honestly, brother, you can be _so_ insensitive.”

“Really, Hyacinth?” asked Benedict. “What about the time you made her describe every dress she’d seen in France?”

“That was different,” said Hyacinth. “That was _interesting.”_

They did all quite enjoy hearing about Siena’s travels in general, apart from the paintings. Especially Colin. And she found that she liked sharing her range of experiences with people who genuinely found them fascinating for their own sake. The only person who had ever let her go on about her life for this long before was Anthony. That had been just as wonderful, but different. He hadn’t wanted to learn about Europe, he’d wanted to learn about _her._

Later that night, when they had blown out the candles and were laying down waiting for sleep to pull them under, Eloise tapped Siena on the shoulder.

“Please do promise you’ll let me know if anyone here is getting on your nerves, Miss Siena. I mean it. You’re our guest. We respect your wishes. And if my brothers don’t, I shall force them.”

Siena was not accustomed to being asked how she felt about the company she kept. And for once, she found she didn’t mind it at all. Because the more Siena regained her strength, the more she became a constant fixture in the others’ lives, they more they appeared to enjoy her presence.

A small, dangerous voice in the back of her mind whispered that it was almost like having a family. One who actually seemed to enjoy her idiosyncrasies, rather than being ashamed of them.

 _You’ve known these people for less than a month,_ Siena reminded herself. _You’re still fairly new. Soon enough, they’ll want you gone, too._

And Siena would know when they wanted her gone. First the vague references to “after you’ve left, we shall…” would begin. Then someone, probably Benedict, would ask her if she needed any help finding a new place to live. And that was when it would be time to look for a new patron, same as always.

* * *

Bright and early on the Saturday morning, Benedict discreetly snuck Siena a garment box and tasked Francesca and Hyacinth with helping her prepare for her first portrait session.

As soon as she tore open the box, Siena uttered aloud the words, “Genevieve Delacroix, I shall have your head.”

“Why?” asked Francesca. “Did she make the wrong size dress?”

“No. It’s perfect. Just _perfect.”_

Francesca smiled, not understanding. “Well, you can’t be _too_ cross with Madame Delacroix. Benedict did have it made to his specifications.”

Siena very much doubted that Genevieve’s role in designing the dress had been insignificant. For one thing, Benedict was no seamstress, and for another, he _was_ an artist, and very much knew that self-portraits were about capturing the spirit of a person as she truly was. This dress was…not her. It wasn’t a ball gown, but it was still horribly elegant. And not in a sultry way. Swan white bodice adorned with sparkly gold leaves, white-gold tulle skirt. The only part that even remotely saved it were the red roses that accented the tulle. It came with some red rose hair ornaments as well, and a note from Genevieve instructing her to wear her rose choker, black teardrop earrings, and black lace shawl.

Grudgingly, Siena stripped down to her last layer, then donned the petticoats, gown, and shawl. The Bridgerton girls helped her fasten it in the back, then helped with her hair and jewelry.

This was absolutely ridiculous. What did Benedict think he was doing, painting Siena as if she were headed for the queen’s court? He should know better! It wasn’t as though _Anthony_ had commissioned it.

“All done!” Francesca declared.

Siena stood up, braced herself for what she was about to see in the mirror, and turned around.

To her amazement, the image wasn’t hideous nor foreign. The touches of her personal style almost made the gown work.

“You look as beautiful as _ever_ , Siena,” Hyacinth breathed, gently fluffing out the tulle.

“I think so, too,” said Francesca. “What do you think?”

“Like I’m backstage prepping for the role of a saucy noblewoman.”

“There’s no title required to wear a gown, you know,” Francesca said. “And we think you’d look gorgeous in anything.” Francesca gently wrapped an arm around Siena and gave her a quick hug, as did Hyacinth.

“Come on, let’s do your makeup now.”

By the time they arrived in Benedict’s studio, everything else was ready. He had set up a place for Siena to stand in front of a plain black backdrop. He positioned her just so, with her hands clasped in front of her heart, her head tilted, and her feet flat and pointed slightly outward. She felt like a window shop mannequin.

“You are the very picture of the highest form of beauty,” said Benedict. “Now, I’ll need Miss Siena to remain perfectly still for the next four hours. Who would like to entertain her first?”

Five hands shot up in the air.

“You may read, talk, or sing only. No requiring her to move!”

* * *

“Bishop to 3G.”

Colin carefully moved Siena’s piece from the square it was on to the square she’d requested.

“Did you do it?” she asked, careful not to move her head.

“Yes.”

“Checkmate.”

“Nice try! I can still…”

Colin’s voice trailed off as he realized that Siena had, in fact, won.

“Today shall forever be known as the first day I ever lost to an opponent who did not even touch the wood.”

“Really?” said Benedict. “What about Marina Thompson?”

 _“Sta ‘zitto!”_ snapped Colin, to Benedict’s further amusement. “You’re lucky we’re in the presence of a lady!”

“I’m not any kind of a lady,” Siena replied softly, hardly moving her lips.

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Colin. “I would say that my eldest brother was lucky to have found you, though. You’re not like the other women.”

Siena quickly fixed her face to match the look Benedict had asked her to maintain, but her disapproval was apparently not lost on the third Bridgerton brother.

“It was a compliment!” Colin clarified.

“No it wasn’t. It was an insult to some other woman.”

“Well, I suppose you haven’t gotten to know many women of the ton. The ones who we’re forced to keep company with as they strut about the ballroom like peacocks, being coy and never speaking their minds.”

“And why exactly do you think the women of your station have adopted such habits?” Siena asked. “For their health? They do it because their only hope of survival comes by way of strutting about, and because speaking their minds would be the surest way to the fringes of society.”

“You sound like Eloise,” said Colin.

“Well a few months from now, Eloise herself is going to be one of those poor peacocks. Think of that. And by the way…your brother didn’t find me by searching for what was different. He found me by getting to know me for who I was. If you wish to court a woman, you might be wise to do the same thing.”

Colin didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Perhaps you’re right. Though I suppose I shouldn’t aspire to be _too_ much like my brother. He did manage to lose you.”

Siena maintained her pose and willed her veneer not to crack.

* * *

“I was wondering,” Eloise asked, interrupting chapter 8 of _Sense and Sensibility,_ “What exactly would it take to become an opera singer?”

Siena turned towards Eloise, her head still rested against her own pillow.

“A much more highly developed set of vocal chords than your own.”

Eloise laughed. “I certainly assumed so, thank you very much. I meant for Hyacinth.”

Siena felt her face visibly blanch.

“She’s quite talented, is she not?”

Siena looked away, shaking her head.

“I would absolutely never recommend that a young lady from the ton try to enter my profession.”

“But why not? There are so few opportunities for women to make a living in her own right. This could be her chance.”

Siena wasn’t sure how Anthony would feel about her having this conversation with his younger sister. But she _was_ sure how he would feel at the thought of his baby sister standing on a stage with daisies in her hair, being watched by noblemen who silently fitted her for a mattress.

“What?”

“Tell me, Miss Eloise, what exactly do believe an opera singer aspires to earn per annum?”

Eloise thought for a moment, then rattled off an amount that caused Siena to laugh out loud.

“I’ve performed with women-elder women, well established, who have not yet seen that amount in their entire careers.”

 _“What?_ But...but that’s not possible. With the amount of money that the opera house makes in one night alone, surely they would be able to…well, they could…they certainly ought to…” the look of horror on the younger woman’s face magnified. “You mean to tell me that all of those performers we know and adore, not one of them is making a proper living?”

“Not the women, no.”

“But then how do they survive?”

Siena looked away. She felt Eloise’s expectant gaze on her, then downcast her own eyes as she answered.

“Patrons provide lodging, and in exchange, the women indulge their desires. And if you don’t know what that means, might I suggest you ask your married sister.”

Eloise’s eyes bulged to the size of dinner plates.

“This is absolutely abhorrent! The very first thing tomorrow morning, I shall set about spreading word to the ton! Upon hearing this news, they shall immediately stop giving money and patronage to the opera house until they agree to pay their women as well as they pay their men, and then…”

Eloise paused. Siena felt the mattress shift as the other girl turned to face her.

“But they _know_ , don’t they? Even Mother? Even…” she took a deep breath. “Anthony?”

“No,” said Siena quickly, her gaze shifting abruptly back to Eloise. “He asked me to choose him. It was different with him. Rare.”

Eloise appeared relieved, but only by a fraction.

“My dear Miss Siena, I must offer you my sincerest apologies. Make no mistake, I was aware that men are obstinate and archaic and often bull-headed, but I had no idea that they had made our world quite this vile. I do intend to do something about it. Perhaps…if Lady Whistledown called them out! People listen to her. She could tell your story, and some of the other girls’ stories, and then…”

Siena shook her head, smiling in spite of the situation.

“That shan’t work. Whoever this Whistledown character is, she may be able to smooth over a few corners of the world, but she is no more capable of single-handedly tearing down a practice that’s persisted for centuries than I am of becoming a princess.”

“You _could_ be a princess!” Eloise protested. “You’d make the best sort of princess. The sort that would abide by tradition only when it’s best for the people.”

Siena sat up, put one hand over Eloise’s hand, and looked into the eyes of the young woman whose worldview she’d just shaken by speaking true.

“Your brother always said that the bravest Bridgertons were those with whose names began in a vowel. Now I understand why. You’re not afraid to speak your mind, nor are you afraid to stand up for what you believe in. I shall never become a princess, Eloise. But someday, _you_ might. And when that happens, the world will become an extraordinary place.”

As she drifted off to sleep that night, Siena’s thoughts were of hope. Her mother had been wrong. She may never be a member of the upper class, but she was more than a piece of art to those who were. There were gentry who cared about her welfare. People who reminded her of herself. Girls who might one day be able to scrape together the privilege _and_ the clout to stand up to the men.

Meanwhile, Eloise hardly slept a wink. She had plans to form, conversations to have, and a corner of the world to smooth over.

* * *

The next day, after Siena’s portrait session, Benedict asked for a moment of her time. He discreetly ushered her into the study and closed the door behind them.

Anthony’s study wasn’t decorated the way Siena had expected it to be. She could tell that the aesthetic had not been set by him, but by the man who presided from the portrait above the mantel. Or perhaps someone even further back. Nearly everything in here was practical, candlesticks and clocks and oxford dictionaries. There were also few purely decorative items related to horses. Nice, but utterly impersonal.

Benedict sat down, not behind the desk, but in one of two leather chairs by the mantel, and motioned for Siena to do the same.

“What I’m about to say to you comes not just from me, but from all of us Bridgertons,” he began. “It has not escaped my attention that you have all but regained your strength, and have been preparing for your return to the opera.”

Siena was far less surprised that she was evidently being asked to vacate the premises than by the exceptionally direct manner in which Benedict was addressing it. A little hurtful, but at least it was respectable.

“But in the past few weeks, my brothers and sisters and I have grown fond of you. You’ve become a dear friend to us all, and suffice it to say, we would be most saddened were you to walk out of this house and leave our lives forever. Which is why I have a proposition for you.” He paused. “Siena Rosso-would you do me the honor of allowing me to serve as your patron?”

The shock must have been visible on her face, because he continued.

“I’m suggesting nothing of an amorous nature between the two of us, I assure you. You would be free to do whatever you please, with whomever you please. But we would find you a place to live, support your contribution to the arts, be available in any emergencies, and of course, you’d have at six callers popping by a few times a week.” Benedict exhaled. “What do you say?”

Was this truly happening? Was Siena actually being given a chance to live her life free from obligatory fornication, in a way that was permitted, comfortable, and secure? In a way that would allow her to keep her new friends? And they would willingly use their money to keep her safe?

Their money…which was Bridgerton family money.

Anthony’s money.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she began. “That is a most generous and kind offer, but I’m afraid I cannot accept.”

Benedict’s face fell.

“Whyever not? Has someone slighted you? Was it Colin? Gregory? Myself?”

“No! I assure you, every one of you has been wonderful, but I…”

“Anthony?”

“No!” Siena answered too quickly. “He has not. I’m the one who ended things with him, Mr. Bridgerton. He wanted to have me, _wanted_ to bring me out into the light. And I told him that I couldn’t be with him, that I could _never_ be the woman that this world would expect of me.”

She wanted to take it back. These were words she had no business saying out loud. But she had already said them, and the tears were already falling.

“I told him he had to let me go. I cannot salt his wound by becoming a permanent fixture in your lives, and I certainly cannot take the viscount’s money.”

Benedict nodded his head, trying and failing to remain expressionless although he was plainly crestfallen. Siena had seen that look on a Bridgerton man before.

“I understand, Miss Siena. Truly.” Benedict stood up, Siena followed suit.

“You’ll stay out the week, yes? Give me the opportunity to finish up your portrait?”

“Of course,” Siena promised.

Benedict escorted Siena back to her room. While he was gone, the door to the study’s adjacent storage closet opened up, and Colin and Eloise slipped out.

As soon as Benedict returned, the others asked him what they thought they ought to do now.

“We must keep the young lady occupied and present. And we must bring our brother home at once.”


	4. what they've handed down

It would have been a lie to say that Anthony Bridgerton was any sort of stranger to doing the right things for the wrong reasons, or vice versa. Yet when he had announced that he was to take an extended business trip to Ireland that just happened to coincide with the end of an affair, his mother didn’t question it. In fact, she encouraged it. Let the viscount get out of his head. Find other things to think about. Important things, business things. With any luck, he’d come back a new man.

When Colin begged to go along, Anthony had refused. Partly because he had wanted both of his eldest brothers on deck in London, and partly because he had simply wanted to be alone.

Once he docked in Ireland, Anthony was greeted by Mr. Ryan, the strapping, middle-aged manager that his father had hired to watch over the property nearly two decades before. Mr. Ryan escorted him to a modest dwelling that was to be his for the duration of his stay. After that, Anthony Bridgerton did not step food out of doors for two weeks.

He left his bedroom only when it was absolutely necessary, and forced himself to eat when the servants brought him meals. He knew that no one in his family would have stood for him indulging in this level of misery, but he didn’t care. They wouldn’t have understood.

Siena was gone. Yet she remained everything. She lingered in the air, around every corner, present in his every waking thought. He felt her in the early morning sunlight that sparkled off the ocean like winking jewels, in the playful nature of the wind that whipped carelessly through the house when the windows were open, in the scent of wildflowers and the ticking of his heirloom watch. In moments where he felt at peace, every hour simply reminded him of what she must be doing, whether it be preparing for a show or laughing with her friends. In the moments where he despaired, it remarked the beginning of a new hour without her.

It was the most awful, hopeless time in Anthony’s entire life apart from his father’s death. In some ways, the grief was comparable.

There was one way in which it was worse; and that was knowing that his present suffering was no one’s fault but his own.

* * *

He didn’t have to be happy, he reminded himself. But he did have to take at least one tour of his property while he was here. So Anthony finally washed, shaved, dressed, and requested Mr. Ryan come meet him up at the house on horseback.

He didn’t have to stay on his feet after today, though. There was no one here with the authority to force him.

At least Anthony didn’t have to do much of the talking. Mr. Ryan peppered their ride with cheerful-if-boastful anecdotes about the state of things.

“These farms have got the highest bounty of any potato crop this side of Dublin. And thanks to our cultivation, the soil has evolved into something out of a fairytale. All seeds planted here, no matter how stubborn, grow and thrive!”

“We keep the cows to fertilize the crops, but the occasional beef export yields an even higher price!”

“You have my word that your property shall continue to thrive well into your twilight years!”

“I’ve been absolutely thrilled to make your acquaintance, Lord Bridgerton. I’m sure you know you’re welcome to stay on this island as long as it takes for you to breath in our fresh ocean air, and perhaps enjoy a lass or two? I’d be happy to make some recommendations. Plenty of redheads, well-endowed at that!”

To this, Anthony replied, “I appreciate your hospitality, Mr. Ryan. Might we take a turn about the local village before we depart?”

“Oh…m’lord, you don’t want to go there. The people smell awful. Too much noise, too much whiskey. I’d be happy to deliver some lassies directly to your dwelling.”

But Anthony insisted that he would very much like to ride into the village. And that he wanted no women delivered to his dwelling.

Mr. Ryan had not been joking about the smell. The overwhelming aroma of regurgitated whiskey and manure hit them well before smooth dirt roads gave way to rough, damaged cobblestones that bumped along under the horses’ hooves. Before Anthony cast his eyes upon the crumbling, patched-up buildings. Even the church, which was clearly the area’s proudest structure, upheld by wooden supports along the back wall.

“How did it get like this?” asked Anthony quietly.

“Well, you know, tenants. They expect you to do all of the upkeep. Get lazy when you don’t.”

Anthony stopped his horse and turned to Mr. Ryan.

“This is mine?”

“The businesses belong to the blokes, yes, but they rent from you.”

“What about the common areas? The roads? The square?”

“They serve their purpose, m’lord.”

Anthony pulled his horse a little off to the side to keep out of the townsfolks’ way as they moved about him. He watched them. Men who looked as though they hadn’t rested in years. Pregnant women with babies on their hip heaving sacks of flour. Slim, dirty youngsters running about the square, alone and unsupervised. Youngsters who prayed every Sunday under weather-worn crosses and saw but one path ahead. The boys with holes in their shoes would either inherit a shop or farm until their backs broke. The girls with tangles in their hair would become housewives or whores.

Unless a lucky one-a _very_ lucky one-developed some sort of special talent that allowed her to rise above the dirt and dust and make something of herself. Something that would never be respected, would leave her on the fringes of high society and of her humble, devoutly catholic family alike, but nonetheless would afford her the luxuries of warm beds and hot baths and three meals a day.

And even so, what were the odds of such a talent being recognized in this place? Certainly not as high as they were in Italy.

Anthony noticed one woman; older, perhaps ten years his mother’s junior age with her same height and half her width. Wisps of fiery red locks escaped the stranger’s kerchief as she struggled under the weight of two arms full of groceries.

“Madam? Might we, perhaps, help you with your provisions?”

When the woman locked eyes with Anthony, she balked. Her entire face contorted in disgust, as if she’d just been force-fed rotten meat. For a moment, she said absolutely nothing, taking in the audacity of his presence.

“No thank you, _Lord Bridgerton,”_ she finally responded, an edge in her voice like a sharp icicle. “I require no assistance from you.”

“Hey!” snapped Mr. Ryan. He steered his horse in the direction of the woman. “Mind your tongue, you impertinent…”

“It’s fine!” said Anthony quickly. “Let her go, Mr. Ryan. She’s fine.”

The woman trudged away as fast as her legs could carry her, not even stopping to pick up a pound of brown sugar she dropped. Apparently, she didn’t think much of landowners. Anthony certainly couldn’t fault her. Not when he had apparently allowed injustices to go on for an unconscionable length of time.

“You know what these people are to us, don’t you, m’lord?” said Mr. Ryan. “Just because we do business with them doesn’t make us responsible for their welfare.”

“Well, you are correct. _You_ are not responsible for such matters _,”_ Anthony agreed. “Because you’re fired.”

“What?”

“You’ll be given one month’s severance pay, and your choice of any horse from the livery.”

The manager tried to argue, but his words, no matter how colorful, fell on deaf ears. When he finally stormed off, Anthony saw that dozens of townsfolk had stopped to witness their argument. They were all quiet, but smiling.

That night, Anthony wrote to Benedict and explained that he was going to be staying away for the foreseeable future. He had more injustices to correct than he’d foreseen.

* * *

With no replacement on deck, Anthony was forced to step in as acting manager of his own property. And he soon discovered that, save the most technical of aspects, he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

His oxford education had prepared him to become one of the youngest viscounts in England. But it had not prepared him to meet the wants and needs of people whose lives were so different from his, they didn’t even resemble it.

He wrote to Daphne to ask her advice. She told him what she knew of the things farmers universally required and coveted, and encouraged him to find a few trusted advisors within the community who could tell him more. Simon gave him some ideas as well.

Anthony appreciated them both, but there was someone else who he wanted at his side now more than ever. Someone who would most likely be able to tell him exactly how to help his tenants. She might even be able to successfully befriend some of them. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

His most immediate action was to fix the church, streets, shops, and common areas. He secured the materials and paid the workers fairly. In the meantime, he spent his evenings at the pub, chatting up older folks who knew the most about the village and its residents. He listened to them, their concerns and advice.

“I must extend to every last one of you my most sincerest apologies,” said Anthony one night. “I had no idea of Mr. Ryan’s methods, but that is no excuse. They still occurred on my watch.”

The sharpest of the men, Tom Ferguson, smiled.

“Here’s something that ought to be of some comfort to you, mi’lord. You’ve been viscount ten years, yes? I’ve been on this earth nearly fifty. Me whole life, I’ve paid my dues to the name of Bridgerton. A mere fraction of the injustices we have faced have occurred on your watch alone.”

So…this property had already been in shambles when Anthony’s father came to it? When he even hired Mr. Ryan in the first place? And possibly even the manager before, the one that his grandfather had hired? _This_ was a Bridgerton family legacy?

That was no comfort at all. Not even in the slightest.

What brought him the most shame of all was imagining the look on Siena’s face if she found out. Then again, perhaps she had already known that it was likely he was the perpetrator of a situation like this. Because that’s what members of the gentry did.

* * *

Anthony hired on Ferguson to be his second-in-command. It was a wise decision, as the man was not only knowledgeable, but incredibly respected by the townsfolk. He understood the importance of turning a profit, for everyone’s sakes, but he would never, ever make a decision at the expense of the welfare of his people. And they all knew that.

He and Ferguson spent their mornings out and about the town, overseeing projects and holding meetings, and their afternoons in the office pouring over accounts and numbers.

He still felt her near him. Siena danced in the grateful eyes of a child skipping about in brand new shoes, in the gleam of the church’s new picture window, in the happy chatter of young men and women on the way home from the pub. She shot him stern looks over the shoulders of the folks he continued to fail, and worse yet, those who were all but beyond help. Men whose bodies were irreparably damaged from wear and tear, or who had fallen too deep in the barrel to pull themselves out. Families who had lost loved ones to starvation or lack of resources.

Anthony helped the farmers secure better equipment and come up with a payment plan that wouldn’t bankrupt them. He came up with a new system for rent that would require his tenants only to give them a certain percentage of their income, excluding that amount which was necessary for their family’s survival.

One night, just as Anthony was about to head home from the pub, he spotted another woman walking in. That same slightly older woman who had scorned him on his first day in town.

Every single guest at the establishment stopped what they were doing to watch as Anthony started towards her.

“Madam, might I have a moment of your time?” he asked her. “I do feel we may have gotten off on the wrong note.”

She shook her head, weary disdain clear in her expression.

“No. It’s nothing. I thought you were someone else.”

She turned on her heel and dashed away.

“You oughtent be bothered by her, mi’lord,” said one of Anthony’s dining companions. “She’s never been too friendly with anyone outside of her family.”

“Who is she?” asked Anthony.

“Miss Sorcha Walsh. Been our only washer woman for years. Me thinks it’s all the scrubbing that’s made her hard-hearted.”

Perhaps it was true, that this woman had a generally unpleasant countenance. But the way that she had looked at Anthony, and the disgusting taste in her mouth the first time she’d addressed him, seemed unrivaled. Personal.

She claimed to have thought he was someone else…yet she had addressed him by his correct title the first time they’d met.

Anthony sprang up and rushed out of the pub.

“Miss Walsh,” he called as he strode down the street. “Miss Walsh!”

He caught her quickly, standing out in front of the launderess’ shop, a building that even in the midst of other small still-in-the-process-of-being-mended buildings appeared to be little more than a miserable shack. She stopped when he was close enough to see her face, but did not look him in the eye.

“You knew my father, didn’t you?” Anthony began. “He was here, nearly twenty years ago. He’s gone now, you know. He died.”

Sorcha Walsh clenched her jaw and solidified her scowl. Almost as if she were afraid her face would become something else.

“What happened?” asked Anthony. “Please. Tell me. What did he do?”

In that moment, the door to the shop opened. Out came a thin young woman in a green and white dress, identical in appearance to Miss Walsh but for her long braid down her back. About halfway between Daphne and Eloise in age. And in the shade of her brown curls.

“Can I help you with something, your lordship?” asked the young woman. “Mam?”

“How…” Anthony faltered. “How old are you?”

“We’re closed!” Miss Walsh shouted, straightening herself and answering Anthony’s question in her own way.

The girl looked at Anthony, then looked at her mother quizzically.

“But Mam…”

“Erin, get inside!”

The woman and girl disappeared into the building where they lived and worked. A building that could have fit into the space of Anthony’s master bedroom at his family home.

* * *

There was a ninth sibling.

Anthony’s father, the man who he had spent a lifetime idolizing, the man he had never dreamed he could have lived up to, had cheated on his wife. He had fathered a lovechild.

And he had allowed that child to grow up _here._

“So, I don’t suppose you would be familiar with womens’ work,” Anthony began, when he and Ferguson were next alone in the office together. “But might you know a thing or two about how we might go about improving the lives of the village launderesses?”

Ferguson said nothing. Just sat down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and shot Anthony a surprised glance.

“You know,” Anthony realized.

“’Tis stranger yet that you do, mi’lord. We never thought your father even knew Miss Erin came about, let alone spoke of her.”

“He never did speak of her…but how could he not have _known?”_

“He was here but for three days. Told Miss Sorcha he would return in the spring. Never did. They mocked her for believing him, but more than anything, folks pitied her. She was no sultry barfly, Miss Sorcha. Sixteen and gorgeous as a sunset. She was kind then, too. Could have had any husband she chose. It’s no wonder she caught the eye of the viscount.”

Anthony felt the tick of his father’s watch against the inside of his pocket. Outside, the children were running out of school, chattering and cheering.

“Miss Walsh is to be forgiven any and all debts. Immediately. She and her daughter are to remain in the shop rent free as long as they choose. Any desired repairs and upgrades will be covered.”

That wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough.

“Are there any others?”

“Not that we know of, mi’lord. Not from him. Mr. Ryan? Now, he’s got at least three. Two sons of whores, one more that went to the Hammonds after her mother died in childbirth.”

“Please give me the names of the first two mothers, so that I may see to it that they’re compensated. As for the last, I shall speak to the Hammonds.”

Anthony went straight home to his dwelling after his work for the day was done. His housekeeper, Miss O’Driscoll, informed him that the post had arrived. He found a single letter from his mother on his writing desk.

_“How dare you even think of firing Mr. Ryan after twenty years of employment? You may not agree with his methods, but the man got the job done, as evidenced by the fact that your father hired him as well as that you’ve turned the same profit every year since you inherited that property, profits that as I may recall you have used to set aside the entirety of Hyacinth’s dowry! Do you expect to be able to do the same for your daughters, if you are unable to find another effective employee? I should think not! Your father would never have passed his assets onto you in the sate of disarray that you are now set to pass it on to your son, nor would he have used a schoolboy crush to justify such utter foolishness!”_

Your father. Your father. Your father.

Edmund Bridgerton had spent three days here in his life. Three days was not enough time for any great love affair to develop. Nor, when he went philandering, had the former viscount chosen to enter an agreement with an established prostitute. Or any woman mature enough to know what to expect from him. No. He had selected a young girl, an _innocent_ girl, and lied to her about his intentions. Destroyed her in a way that, were she a girl of the ton, would have resulted in a bullet to the head.

Lady Whistledown had once written that extramarital affairs were like rats; where one was spotted, chances were hundreds more lurked in the shadows. Most times, Anthony didn’t believe a word out of that gossip column. But perhaps that particular phrase was true.

Anthony’s father…the man upheld as a paragon of honor and grace…the man who’s footsteps Anthony had sought to follow when he had given up the truest love he would ever known…had been a rake. The _worst_ sort of rake.

Anthony sat down at his writing desk and penned a response to his mother.

_“I am not my father. And you are not Lord Bridgerton.”_

After placing the sealing wax on the letter, he removed his father’s watch from his pocket and set it on the desk. It ticked away, marking the passage of time. Mapping out the road ahead that Anthony was condemned to travel without love because of who he had listened to.

And he used his fist to smash the timepiece into cogs and springs.

* * *

As he continued to improve things on his property, Anthony spent most of his unoccupied time examining the failings he had committed in his relationship with Siena. And it always came down to one moment. Not the day that he had come to her doorstep with flowers, not anything to do with his near-duel with Simon, but the day that he woke her up with the words “I cannot see you anymore.”

The look on her face, the shock, the pain, the utter _betrayal_ was seared into his memory for all eternity. It was the way he least desired to remember her, yet it came to his mind the most.

Any other issues could have been manageable. But not the breaking of his promise to be there for her forever. He had known from the beginning what she needed from him in order for their relationship to work. And he had taken it away.

There were two reasons why Anthony continued to put effort into making his tenants’ lives better; the tenants themselves, and Siena. No one else. He vowed that one day, he would find a way to share this with her. He would go to her without hope or agenda and tell her that in spite of how awful he’d been to her, _she_ had still been able to inspire him to give these people a good life. Because that was the magic of Siena.

He would tell her that, even if it was the one and only time they ever spoke again.

* * *

“Lord Bridgerton? Your post has arrived.”

“Thank you, Miss O’Driscoll,” said Anthony, as he headed for the bedroom to change his clothes before going out to the pub. “Please leave it on my desk.”

“You’ve received two letters from your brother, both marked urgent.”

Anthony turned and accepted the mail from his housekeeper. He went to his parlor and sat down, praying that the letters were actually from Benedict and not more tirades from his mother in disguise.

The first thing he noticed was that the first letter had been sent three days previously, the second, early this morning. Just early enough to have been delivered by the ferry, in fact.

_“Dearest brother,_

_Last night, Miss Siena Rosso came to the club looking for you. She was extremely ill, pale and feverish. Doctor said influenza. I’ve taken the liberty of caring for her at home, without Mother’s knowledge or permission. Am I doing the right thing? Please advise._

_Yours truly,  
Benedict”_

He tore open the second letter at once.

_“Dearest brother,_

_I would like to ease any concern you may have by assuring you that Miss Rosso’s fever has broken. She is expected to make a full and complete recovery, and we will continue to care for her. The doctor has said it is best she not be moved, so we will be keeping her at home._

_Benedict.”_

Anthony stormed over to his writing desk, pulled out his pen and parchment, and immediately wrote a response.

_“Change nothing, I’ll come home at once.”_

Anthony held his words with trembling fingers. No. He _couldn’t_ come home at once. He was acting manager of the property. There were still things he had to put in place, things he had to fix, before he returned to London.

But Siena was at his house.

Anthony crossed out his sentences and wrote new ones.

_“Tend to her until she is stable, then send her here.”_

If possible, that was an even _more_ ludicrous plan. He was going to send for the woman who had suffered for months and months because of him, then finally told him three times to let her go? Just assume that because she’d been unfortunate enough to require his assistance once, she would abandon everything and come to a foreign country to be with him?

It was absurd. And quite frankly, insulting to Siena.

Anthony tore up the entire parchment.

Siena had come _looking_ for him. Foremost, that caused Anthony to fear for how bad her health had been, as she would never have come to him for just anything. But it meant that there was some level on which she still trusted him. She _knew_ he still cared about her.

This also meant that the other gentleman was gone. Or was too much of a cad to care for his sick mistress (which seemed less likely, much as Anthony fancied him a villain).

Anthony wrote a letter to Benedict imploring him to keep protecting Siena, using veiled language, in case their mother found it. Then he realized that he hadn’t written to most of his siblings in weeks, sat down, and distracted his spinning thoughts by composing a letter for each one.

Siena was in his house. She was sick. She would recover. She was _in his house._

If Siena had been in such a bad way that she had been forced to ask for help from him, she must be left now with one single comfort, and that was that she hadn’t been required to actually interact with her former lover in order to survive.

She must be _relieved_ to be dealing with Benedict and not Anthony. And if Anthony returned, she might even insist on leaving the house before she was fully recovered.

She wouldn’t want him there, not now.

He had hurt her. And she had told him to let her go. There was exactly one decent thing he could do for her, which was respect her wishes and assist her from afar.

* * *

One week passed by. The workload of property management began to stabilize. Complaints and problems went down, expenses leveled off while profits rose.

Anthony pretended not to be thinking about it when the ferry came in from London, pretended not to care whether or not he’d received any mail. But Miss O’Driscoll brought him a packet of letters from his siblings all the same.

Benedict wrote: _I thank you for your kind words, dear brother. Attending to your affairs has not been a strain in the least. In fact, it’s been quite the highlight of your time away._

Hyacinth wrote: _No doubt Benedict has written to you about our new friend, well, really your friend who’s now also our friend. I hope that you plan to allow her to continue to live in our home indefinitely and I know everyone says Mother wouldn’t like her but I do and if our beautiful friend really must leave then I think we should all go with her, don’t you agree?_

Daphne wrote: _We have been quite entertained with our siblings’ stories about their guest. She sounds absolutely delightful. You know…if the state of your relationship with her is such that you might want to make it something of a more permanent nature, the duke and I would be more than willing to support you publicly. That should take the edge off any damage it may do to our younger siblings' marriage prospects._

Colin wrote: _My enthusiasm for travel has only increased in light of what our new friend has had to teach us. She’s an absolute treasure. Really, dear brother, whatever were you thinking not introducing us to her before?_

Francesca wrote: _Our musical skills have increased greatly thanks to our friend. I do hope that she can continue singing with us after you have returned, especially since she hasn’t finished telling us the story of the castrati and the two camels._

Eloise wrote: _What I have learned about you in the past few days, dear brother, has only brought you closer to my heart. But I’m afraid that your love for certain people is absolutely no excuse for your continued support of certain institutions which continue to exploit them and others. We are to have a long talk when you return to London, you have been warned._

Gregory wrote: _Your friend must stay, she makes everything in the house more joyful. Perhaps if you agreed to reside at your bachelor lodgings forever, she could claim your bedroom officially._

Anthony comforted himself with the knowledge that everyone he loved was absolutely fine without him. They didn’t need him. Least of all her.

* * *

Two weeks after he received his initial correspondence from Benedict, Anthony arrived home from work precisely at one, to see if Miss O’Driscoll had brought the post.

“No mail today, sir. But something _has_ arrived for you from England, sir. It’s in your study.”

When Anthony opened his door, he found none other than his second oldest brother sitting behind his desk, flipping through one of his books.

Anthony couldn’t help but smile. “Did I not expressly forbid you to leave London, Colin?”

“Indeed, but I forgive you. You were right about one thing. There should be two Bridgerton men at the family home at all times. It just so happens that I needn’t be one of them.”

“What are you doing?”

“I can see here that potatoes are by far our largest export, however, in order to keep the fields fertile, it would be best to ask the farmers to plant some legumes in those same fields next season while possibly tilling some new soil, such as the untouched bounty on the O’Neal property. Also, I understand that beef is an expensive export, but it might be more profitable in the long run if we were to put that on hold and allow the farmers to keep the cows for personal use.” Colin stood up. “Don’t look so surprised, Anthony. I’m an Oxford man, too. Also, the wonderful Mr. Ferguson was able to show me around town a bit. It looks grand, but I think that if we were to have some picnic tables constructed about the square it might be even more so. We could use the leftover wood from the last restoration project.”

To this, all that Anthony could say was, “And why, pray tell, are you so eager to take my place?”

To which Colin responded. “I think you know.”

Anthony shook his head.

“You know not what of you speak.”

“Anthony, I have spent nearly three weeks in the company of that lady. As you are aware, I don’t know a damn thing about women. Which is why it should speak volumes that it’s plain even to me that she longs for you. Regardless of what words she may have said.”

“If that _is_ true, then that’s precisely why I cannot return home. It would be cruel to her.”

“She told us that she cannot stay in our lives because it would be cruel to _you!_ This is mad! How can it be possible that two people who so clearly understand and care for one another are so reluctant to be together?”

“Colin, do you have any idea how people look at her? How the ton would treat her, were I to bring her into their midst? How could I claim to love someone and subject them to that level of scorn?”

 _“We_ are in the ton. We adore her.”

“Have you not met Lady Trowbridge? The Featheringtons? The Cowpers?”

“Brother…we _hate_ all of those people. The gentry whose company we actually enjoy may look twice, but they would never be unkind to her. They may even grow to like her. Can you imagine an exchange between her and Lady Danbury?”

A conversation between the two most unapologetically strong women Anthony had ever met. Which way would that go? They could develop a great friendship or a great rivalry with grudging respect. Either of which would be delicious.

He could imagine Siena striking up friendships with his sisters’ friends, young wives and debutantes with secret ambitions and sharp tongues. Older women who’d achieved more than they’d ever admit.

Things might be more awkward with the men. Siena knew things about them-less than respectable things. But not only would this give her an edge over them, she would absolutely delight in making them squirm.

So who, exactly, was Anthony so apprehensive about introducing her to? Besides...

...besides his mother.

One person. Just one.

“Your bags have been packed,” said Colin. “The ferry departs in two hours. Here’s your ticket.”

Anthony wordlessly took the piece of paper, which had been marked in his name, first class.

“Take care not to let her slip through your fingertips this time. If you do, your family may never forgive you.”


	5. bringing new life

_I have a dream for you  
It's better than where you've been  
It's bigger than your imagination  
You're gonna find real love  
And you're gonna hold your kids  
You'll change the course of generations  
-_Family Tree _, Matthew West_

Knowing that the clock was running out on her Bridgerton friendships made Siena somber. She was beginning to regret promising to stay until her portrait was complete. Benedict required that she pose while he painstakingly adjusted every last detail, which she found odd, but he assured her that the process was different for pencil portraits than it was for oil paintings.

And he wasn’t letting anyone see it yet, not even her.

When Siena wasn’t posing, she tried to avoid interacting with anyone. She could tell that it hurt the others’ feelings to see her pulling away, but still they respected her space. Colin said a polite goodbye to her before he left town. Eloise stopped sleeping in the bed and started leaving Siena novels to read by herself. It wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as sharing them.

The only ones she felt obligated to put on a front for were Gregory and Hyacinth, who weren’t old enough to understand why she would have to stop being their friend soon. Also, she was a little concerned about Hyacinth trying to run away with her.

“I don’t see one reason in the world why you should ever have to leave us! You don’t have a house. You’re Anthony’s friend. Friends stay at friends’ houses all the time.”

There was a time when there might have been some truth in the child's words. But not now. Not after Siena had rejected Anthony mainly for reasons that were completely outside of his control.

How would things have been different, had she gone to the ball with him that night? Would his siblings think as highly of her as they did now, if she had infiltrated their world in that way? A month ago, it wouldn’t have seemed possible. But now she found herself believing they would. Eloise might actually admire her _more._

It didn’t matter, she reminded herself. It was over. All there was to do was fulfil her obligation to Benedict and then leave. She could stay with Genevieve long enough to find a new patron and become another man’s private indulgence.

* * *

Finally, Siena heard the words that she had awaited with anticipation and dread.

“All done!”

She stepped out of her pose, the petticoats swishing around her legs as she walked over to Benedict.

“I hope you’re all right with it. I’m fully aware I’m no Leonardo da Vinci.”

Only after she nodded in acknowledgement did he allow her to come around to the other side of the canvas and look at it.

She had been expecting it to be flattering, in the same way that his quick sketch of her had been, but she had never expected her own image to take her breath away.

Every last detail was rendered exquisitely, every fold of tulle, curl of hair, and rose petal. He had drawn her on a dark stage, floorboards beneath her bare feet, red curtains hanging down from either side. But the most masterful piece of all was her face. That visage of longing and love, with a slight twinkle in her eye. It was a view of herself that she'd never seen before.

She looked like a soprano _and_ a lady, a lover and a fighter, vulnerable and unbreakable.

She looked beautiful.

“Are you crying?” Benedict asked.

Siena shook her head no, tears wetting the edges of her eyelashes.

“I’m proud to have moved you,” he admitted.

“I’m proud of you, too!”

He smiled and handed her a handkerchief from his pocket. Actually it was one of Genevieve’s handkerchiefs, but it was clean.

Maybe she’d at least be able to remain in Benedict’s orbit, seeing that he was with one of her dearest friends. He’d be able to give her news of the others once in a while.

But she mustn’t allow herself to dream it would ever be the same again.

“Ah, yes,” Benedict cleared his throat. “There is still the matter of the contract.”

“What contract?”

“You know, permission to show your portrait to others, permission to display it in public, all those things. Let’s get that taken care of right quick, and you’ll be on your way.”

Once they were upstairs, he motioned for Siena to wait for him in the study. He shut her in, obviously, so that no servants would notice she was around.

At least after today, she wouldn’t have to hide anymore.

Alone in this room, casting her eyes upon the desk and its drawers, Siena suddenly remembered something. What was it again, that Benedict and Eloise had discussed the night before her fever broke?

_“He told me this past season that there was the name of a lady written down in the top drawer of his desk, and stated that if anything should happen to him she was to be provided for indefinitely.”_

When exactly had Benedict checked the drawer to see whose name was in it? The day after the planned duel between Anthony and the duke? Or more recently than that?

Could it be that, were the unthinkable to occur today, Anthony’s dying wish would still be to secure Siena’s welfare?

Of course not.

Could it?

Siena carefully maneuvered her tulle skirt around the desk. She paused to listen for footsteps, then when she heard none, she pulled open the top drawer.

It was full of pens, ink, office supplies. And one red hair ribbon.

 _Her_ red hair ribbon.

Underneath the ribbon, a crisp white piece of paper with perfect black lettering.

_Siena Rosso_

Just then, she heard the sound of shoes on the floorboards drawing nearer to the room. Siena quickly put the ribbon back in place and shut the drawer, her heart pounding, just in time for the doorknob to rattle. She opened her mouth to rattle off an excuse to Benedict.

But the gentleman who entered the room, who froze in place nary a second after casting eyes upon her, was not Benedict.

His skin was two shades tanner, as handsome as ever. He’d shaved off part of his sideburns, cut his hair to the length it had been when they’d last seen each other. His brown eyes were wide with apparent awe as he took in the sight of her, standing behind his desk in her portrait dress. Red roses in her hair, a blush creeping to her cheeks.

“Welcome home, my lord. I see your time away has done you good.”

It took Anthony a moment to find his voice.

“Indeed it has. I see that in spite of your recent illness, you look every bit as heavenly as always.”

“We have your dear family to thank for that. They wasted no time nursing me back to health.”

“And I shall spend a lifetime repaying my debt of gratitude towards them,” Anthony took a step closer to Siena. “You can always come to me for help, Siena. I do hope you know that.”

“The same to you, too.”

He looked her over, the startled-but-not-unpleasantly-so look in her eyes. The slightest hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“I was wrong,” Anthony blurted out. “I was wrong when I insisted upon asking you to the ball so quickly, and I was wrong when I agreed to let you go, and I was wrong when I did not insist on going after you when you left the modiste, but most of all, the worst thing I have ever done in my entire life was allow myself to be set adrift from you.”

She was listening, so he continued.

“You were right. I am lost. I’ve been lost ever since the day that I gave in to the pressure of someone who told me I could not be a responsible viscount, or brother, or man while I had you in my life. Someone whose council I shall never heed again.”

He took a step closer.

“You don’t have to put on any gown, no matter how becoming it may be on you. _Nothing_ about you need change. Ever. But the thing I want most in my life, above all else, is to be yours in whatever way you will have me. As your consort, your husband, or anything in between. And if that means that I am never to sire an heir, even if that means that the title of Lord Bridgerton is to die with the last of my brothers left standing, then so be it. I will continue to attend to my professional responsibilities, as well as my personal ones. But I will not compromise when it comes to love.”

He exhaled. And with that, Siena finally allowed herself to smile.

“My love…is _that_ how you ask a woman for her hand?”

His eyes lit up as he took one of her hands in his, kneeling down while they each felt the other’s heartbeat through their fingertips.

“Siena Rosso, will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

He rose to his feet, lifted her in his arms, and spun her around, tasting the sweetness of her lips again and again as they grinned so hard their faces ached.

She opened her eyes as she squeezed both of her lover’s hands in hers. Assuring herself that this was all real. His presence, his love, his proposal, her name in his drawer, the sound of clapping…

“Who could that be?” asked Anthony.

The door to the study’s storage closet opened, and out flew Eloise, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth, all of whom tumbled into the arms of their brother and his fiancé shrieking with delight.

Then the hallway door opened, and Benedict entered, a sheepish grin on his face. Eloise grabbed him by his arm and pulled him into the hug pile, too.

“Are we going to have to call you Lady Bridgerton now?” asked Gregory.

“Of course not!” said Hyacinth. “We’ll have to call her Sister!”

Meanwhile, downstairs, Violet was happening upon a very odd and unpleasant discovery. The door to her home’s art studio had been left open, and it contained a piece of art which bore the mirror image of a certain prima donna. Why and how did this exist? And where, pray tell, was Benedict? Or any of his siblings for that matter? None had agreed to come out with her that morning, none were in the parlor, none in the drawing room…

The sound of laughter led the matriarch up the stairs and down the hall, to the study, which contained nearly all of Violet’s unmarried children, and _that girl_ wrapped in the arms of her oldest son.

_“What is the meaning of this?”_

Anthony smiled, slipping his hand into Siena’s and entwining his fingers with hers. Benedict and all their younger siblings stepped back.

“Mother,” said Anthony. “I believe you have met my fiancé?”

Violet’s face turned a shade of red that matched the velvet rose petals in Siena’s hair.

“Son, what are you trying to do to me? If this, along with that insolent letter you sent me, is all part of some sort of awful scheme…”

“Not at all.”

“Do you realize that this hussy has been posing for your brother the entire time you’ve been away? That she is so determined to poach the Bridgerton fortune that she would go after any of you?”

Siena, Anthony, and Benedict looked at each other. All three laughed out loud.

“My apologies, mother,” said Benedict. “I had no idea that creating a portrait was such a romantic endeavor. Otherwise, I never would have done so with the woman my brother is in love with.”

“Well, that doesn’t matter. You cannot marry her, Anthony! You cannot! If word were to reach Lady Whistledown that she has even set foot in our home…let alone…”

Violet paled as she ran back over the oddities of the past while. The operatic scales. The missed meals. Everyone’s reluctance to go out.

“How long, pray tell, has this woman been in this house?”

No one answered. Gregory and Hyacinth exchanged a worried glance and looked down.

_“How many of you knew about this?”_

Hyacinth’s eyes widened as her hand shot up.

Benedict and Eloise raised their hands.

Francesca and Gregory followed suit, as did several servants who were now watching from the hall.

Gregory glanced at the staff incredulously. “How did _you_ know?”

“It was either this,” said Mrs. Wilson, “Or you were all taking turns consuming an extra meal three times a day.”

Violet took a step back, surveying those who had betrayed her and glowering at everyone in sight.

“This is absolutely outrageous!” She fixed her stare on Anthony. “If _your father…”_

“My father,” Anthony cut in, “Was an adequate viscount. But he was not an honorable man. And moving forward, there are ways in which this family will _not_ be following in his footsteps. I will be living my life, not his, and attending to my responsibilities, as I see fit. That is my right.”

“As it is my right to refuse to live under the same roof as that…person!”

“I presumed you would say as much. Fortunately, our dear sister and her husband have offered up the use of their London home. I was hoping we would not require it, but it would appear we do.”

“You are _not_ humiliating the duke and duchess by taking that harlot with you to their house!”

Siena pursed her lips in a thin smile.

“I believe he meant it for _you_ , madam.”

In that moment, if looks could have killed, the soprano would have crumbled into dust.

“Come along, children,” Violet seethed. “Let us go pack our bags. It would appear that your dear brother has tired of caring for his family.”

“Has he?” Benedict cut in. “I don’t believe he suggested that any of the rest of us leave.”

Violet shot another death-defying glare in the direction of her second born.

“You’re a grown man, Benedict, so you may do as you please. But the others must prepare to depart."

Hyacinth folded her arms, walked over to Anthony and Siena, and stood as close as she could to them without leaning into them. Gregory did the same. Eloise and Francesca, too, joined their family.

“We’re not going _anywhere,”_ Eloise stated firmly.

“Yes, you are! Just because your brother is the viscount does not mean that he has the right to separate a mother from her children!”

“He’s not separating anyone,” said Francesca. “I merely heard him give you your options after _you_ expressed an unwillingness to live in the same house as your new daughter-in-law. If you so choose, you’re welcome to stay here and continue to fulfil your duties as our mother. Or is all your talk of responsibility meant only for people other than yourself?”

Violet slapped her second youngest daughter so hard that everyone in the room flinched apart from Eloise, who leapt out in front of her sister.

“Leave her alone!” Eloise screamed. “What is wrong with you? What could have possibly made you so broken that you would hate your own children because they care for someone who’s been good to them and befriended them and taught them truths about life of which you are fully aware but would never dare speak? You are _everything_ that is wrong with women of our station!”

Violet stepped back, her whole body trembling.

Eloise was absolutely flush with anger. Hyacinth was hugging Francesca, who blinked back tears. Gregory stood in front of them at Eloise’s side. Benedict stood out in front of the lot of them, poised to intervene.

“Mother,” said Anthony, his fingers still locked tightly in Siena’s. “I think you’d best go.”

And she did.

* * *

To avoid the hassle of asking Her Majesty’s permission, Anthony and Siena made the decision to get married in Ireland. They made an appointment at the chapel and boarded the ferry with Francesca, Gregory, Hyacinth, and of course their man and matron of honor, Eloise and Benedict. Colin met them at the dock and congratulated Anthony on not missing his final shot.

All of their tenants were invited to the ceremony, including Misses Sorcha and Erin Walsh. Before the wedding, Siena managed a discreet conversation with them. She explained to the women that Anthony intended to right his fathers’ wrongs, and offered on the family’s behalf to sponsor Erin’s debut in London the following year. The young woman declined, as she had no desire to leave her mother or her home, but eventually, they settled on a different offer: they were to reside in and supervise the upkeep of the Bridgerton dwelling on the property, and receive a generous annual salary.

Siena was married in her portrait dress, Anthony in a white dress shirt and black trousers. The majority of their ceremony was bogged down by catholic scripts, but everyone could see their love in the way they looked at one another when they said their I dos.

Once they returned to London, the Bridgertons hosted Miss Penelope Featherington for dinner. Eloise was excited for the opportunity to finally tell her best friend about all the secrets she’d been keeping, and Penelope found the Bridgerton family’s subterfuge, and Siena, absolutely delightful.

Soon after, a special edition of Lady Whistledown was released covering everything that had transpired since the end of the social season. It covered weddings and funerals, rumored pregnancies and rumored courtships. She mentioned those who had run into trouble, mentioning lastly the gentleman John Higgins who had been incarcerated for tax evasion.

_“It should also be noted that Siena Rosso, the soprano to whom John Higgins was paying patronage at the time of his arrest, has secured herself a husband in the form of none other than the honorable viscount Lord Bridgerton. Noteworthy, indeed, but hardly unexpected. We all realize that until the former Miss Rosso was forced by the actions of her now mother-in-law to take up with Mr. Higgins out of pure necessity, Lord Bridgerton was the only man she had ever known biblically. In marrying far below his station, Lord Bridgerton was doing what he knew was right by the young lady. Such a thing is always a scandal, but in this case, the true scandal lies in the actions of the dowager viscountess Lady Violet Bridgerton. Not only did she spend months protesting a potential match between her son and his first and only lover, but as a result of her distaste with the new viscountess, she has chosen of her own volition to leave her family. And with four children still at home!”_

Anthony and Siena were both amused by the notion that either one of them had been the other’s first. Was the majority of the ton stupid enough to actually believe that? Of course not. But as it turned out, sounding intelligent was far less important to them than keeping in favor with Lady Whistledown. When Lord and Lady Bridgerton went promenade, arm-in-arm, no one who was not in favor said a thing.

* * *

“Is it done?”

"Did it go well?"

“How is she?”

“Is it here?”

“What is it?”

“Is everything all right?”

“How’s our sister?”

Anthony silenced his eager crowd of siblings with a raised hand. Hyacinth bounced on her toes in anticipation. Everyone else stood up, including Daphne, who had her own infant son in her arms.

“They’re both well. And yes… _she’s_ here.”

Eloise, Francesca, and Hyacinth began clapping with excitement over the arrival of another Bridgerton girl. Gregory tried to look annoyed but was unable to hide a grin. Benedict and Colin shook their brother’s hand and offered his congratulations.

“What’s her name?” asked Daphne. “Alice?”

“Adele?”

“Aurora?”

“Isabelle,” said Anthony. “I for Italy, where Siena was born, and for Ireland, where we were wed. And for the letter after H. Rather than follow tradition, we’ve decided to continue moving forward.”

“That’s gorgeous, brother,” Hyacinth breathed. “May I hold her?”

“Perhaps later today. Right now, they need their rest. And _you_ must run along if you are to arrive on time to lunch with mother.”

The youngest Bridgerton sister pouted. “Might we reschedule for next week? I want to spend the day with my new niece! I’m sure Francesca and Gregory feel the same!”

“You may not reschedule. But remember, Simon and Daphne will be at the house, too. And your nephew, as well.”

Hyacinth marched over to Daphne, hands on her hips.

“You will bring Alexander over to play with Isabelle, won’t you?” Hyacinth pleaded. “He must surely know his cousin, even if she won’t know her grandmother.”

“Of course, darling,” said Daphne, already gathering her youngest siblings. “Let us get going. And I’ll see the rest of you later tonight, yes?”

Benedict and Colin, who were willing to be civil with their mother as long as she refrained from speaking ill of the rest of the family, said goodbye to Daphne. Eloise, who was no longer on speaking terms with Violet at all, had already left.

None of this was, at present, weighing on Anthony’s mind. He walked past his study, where his wife’s portrait now hung above the mantel, and entered the master bedroom, which had been redecorated in shades of red and gold. The curtains were open, the room full of light.

In the middle of the bed, Anthony’s wife rested, her arms encircling a tiny pink bundle.

He pulled the blanket over Siena, gently tucking it around her shoulders. When his lips softly touched her forehead, her hazel eyes flew open.

“I’m so sorry,” whispered Anthony.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I wasn’t asleep yet.”

He gently lowered himself onto the bed, on the other side of the baby, and wrapped one arm around the two people he loved more than he’d once thought a man was capable of loving anyone.

“Did you tell them?”

“Yes,” Anthony promised. “They’re over the moon. I expect that as soon as you’re ready to receive visitors, they will seize every available opportunity to spend time in this bedroom and bring you whatever your heart desires.”

“Sounds familiar.”

Anthony craned his neck to place his forehead on Siena’s, and planted a gentle kiss on her nose. The infant nestled between them cooed softly in her sleep.

“Do you suppose they’ll ever want to meet her? Our mothers?”

“How could they not?” Anthony replied, looking at the perfect, round little cheeks on the person they’d made. “She’s perfect. And she’s their granddaughter. But either way, Isabelle will have a whole army of aunts and uncles looking out for her. She’ll spend her whole life loved and protected and wanted. We all will.”

Siena reached one hand over the baby and wrapped it around her husband, softly caressing him.

“Thank you for being my family, Anthony.”

“Thank you for being mine. My lady.”


End file.
